


Blindness and Bad Luck

by oleanderhoney



Series: The Colour of Light [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Humour, Canon Divergence, F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Genderswap, Jane is a little bit oblivious too, Mistaken Identity, Protective!Sherlock, Sherlock is an odd roommate, Sherlock is oblivious, Slow Build, The Blind Banker, pesky feelings, uncles are the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU with Jane Watson and Sherlock Holmes! A redeux on The Blind Banker further exploring the dynamic between them. Jane realises how eccentric her new flatmate is, and how crazy her life has become, and Sherlock finds that living with someone like Jane is actually a pleasant surprise...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One of Those Days

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! So here we are with the Second Installment in the series. I just want to say how much I appreciate how many comments and hits I've got on this little 'verse. You guys are fantastic, and as always I love your feedback. Thanks again! xx Honey
> 
> Disclaimer: Do not own. Characters and events belong to Moff, Gat, and the BBC.
> 
> PS Un-beta ed

* * *

Red.

Dark red pooling on the sand as she lay there in the desert face down. It was the last thing she saw before she woke up burning with fever in a tent somewhere in Kubal and the world was Grey.

Red.

Dark red pooling on the floor of the classroom, eerily familiar. She had shot the cabbie in almost the same place where the bullet hit her. The irony wasn’t lost on her, even in her nightmares.

Maybe that’s why when she woke up after that night she lost all of the colours again as if they were bleeding out onto the floor.

Well, almost all of the colours. For some reason, the colour Blue remained. She didn’t know what to make of it, but at least it was some sort of comfort that she hadn’t lost them all. The part of her brain that almost always remained lucid during her night terrors reminded her that even if the colours were all off, it was better than seeing the crimson of blood as it arced and spattered over her head and the pain in Bill’s green eyes as the bullet passed through him and into her, again and again and again…

Jane surges upright in her bed gasping, and for a moment she panics because the sheets have twisted themselves around her legs. She fights the unnamed foe — the desert landscape of Afghanistan still burning behind her eyes — by kicking her legs wildly as she tries to tear herself free. She manages to knock into the bedside table, and in a flailing mess she ends up on the floor with a loud _thud_.

As her racing heart slows she registers that she’s safe in her room back at Baker Street. She blows out a long breath, and thunks her forehead against the wood floor.

“Marvellous,” she groans.

“Jane?” Sherlock’s voice comes from the other side of the door, and her head snaps up.

“Yeah?”

“All right?” he asks.

“Yep, er, yes,” she says scrambling to an upright position. “Fine!”

“I heard a rather loud crash.” _Oh he must be a detective or something!_ she thinks wryly.

“Nope. Everything’s fine,” she says again and curses as she bangs her knee on the dresser. She hears a muffled snigger. “Did you need something, Sherlock?” she asks with mild irritation.

“We’re out of milk,” he says from behind the door, and she hears him turn and make his way back down the stairs. She represses a sigh of the long suffering, and looks at herself in the mirror. A sharp piercing wail of a violin rings out downstairs, making her grimace.

“They warned you,” Jane chides her reflection. “They all bloody well warned you, but no you thought it would be a good idea to move in with an eccentric genius.” She runs her fingers through her blonde hair trying to comb through some of the worst snarls, and snatching her robe and a set of clothes, makes her way to the bathroom for a scalding hot shower.

Or it would have been a scalding hot shower had Sherlock not used up all of the bloody hot water.

She hisses as the icy water hits her skin and prays to whatever deity is listening for patience. Today was going to be one of _those_ days. One of those ‘Murphy’s Law’ conundrums. If her Grand-merè were here she would have given her the rabbits foot she kept for such occasions to carry around with her all day. Jane shirks at the memory. Then almost slips on a bar of Sherlock’s poncy soap. She vows to be more careful the rest of the day. The rest of the week if she’s being honest.

She comes out of the bathroom hair still wet and shivering lightly, making a bee-line for the kettle. Tea would surely be the thing to warm her up. She opens the fridge just as Sherlock’s bored voice comes from the sitting room.

“We’re out of milk,” he says from his armchair, turning a page in the book he was reading.

“Yes, so you’ve said,” Jane grumbles. And closes the fridge.

“Oh you did hear me,” Sherlock says and looks up. She tilts her head, and he rolls his eyes. “Well are you going to do something about it?”

She glares. “Are your legs broken, then? Is that the reason you couldn’t get your own bloody milk in the twenty minutes I’ve been in the shower?”

“Don’t be so obtuse, Jane. Of course I’m capable of getting milk. But I can’t just now.”

“If you wanted me to do you a favour you need only say please. Do you have a client or something?” Jane asks, some of the edge fading from her voice. She pops the last two slices of bread into the toaster and makes a mental note to pick up more when she goes out, because apparently, she is.

“Mm. Something like that. The Jaria Diamond. It’s gone missing…” he trails off and glances down at his phone. He jumps up from his seat at the same moment the toast pings, and Jane goes to grab it when she’s suddenly being manhandled into her coat and pushed towards the door by her mad flatmate.

“Hey what —?”

“You really ought to be going now Jane. Beat the traffic. The morning London crowd is the worst.”

“I was planning on walking!” Jane says as she’s steered down the stairs.

“Oh. Well. I need the milk for an [experiment](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1798554) then.” He opens the front door and ushers her out. She manages to shrug him off.

“All right, all right!” She tugs her rumpled jacket back into place, fuming. “You’re especially bossy this morning,” she remarks and starts to pull her hair back when she realises she doesn’t have a hair tie. Before she can even think about going back for one, Sherlock holds one up to her with a smirk. She snatches it from him and snaps the elastic into place. “So do you need —?”

“Just milk!” Sherlock says and slams the front door in her face.

“Prat,” she huffs and makes her way to Tesco.

* * *

Sherlock thought Jane would never leave. He was cutting it short as it was, and playing it casual was a lot harder than he thought. He admitted in the end he was perhaps a bit hasty, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he rushes back up the stairs to the flat.

His mobile chimes again, and he opens the text:

_Your assassin is en route. Expect him in under ten minutes. Are you sure you don’t need intervention? He seems to have an affinity for swords.  
M_

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and types out:

_Yes. Quite sure. Mind your own business, Mycroft.  
SH_

Then, with anticipation thick in his blood, he takes a seat in his chair and proceeds to wait. (The Game is on.)

* * *

An hour and a half later Jane bursts into the flat, her hair in a disarray and positively filled with blood lust for certain automated check out stands, because really, who the fuck thought they were saving anyone any time with those infernal machines anyway? After painstakingly leaving the queue four times to go back and get something that Sherlock decided he needed after all ( _We’re out of rubber gloves, Jane. SH -- Used up the hydrogen peroxide. SH -- Would be prudent to pick up more washing up liquid. SH_ \-- and finally _Hobnobs. Please. SH_ ) she had then proceeded to lose her temper with the cheery sounding machine much to the chagrin of the other customers behind her. And then, oh _then_ , the cheeky thing wouldn’t accept her card after she finally managed to get everything to bloody scan. 

So, really, she couldn’t be blamed for being a bit tetchy when she walked in and found her flatmate right where she left him, having barely moved at all. The infuriating wanker.

Jane stands in the door expectantly fighting the strong urge to stamp her foot like a child. Sherlock doesn’t even deign to look up.

“You took your time,” he says flipping a page in the same bloody book he was reading before. “Did you get the milk?”

“No, I didn’t get your ruddy milk,” she says and goes in to the kitchen to see if her toast from earlier was still around. Cold toast was better than no toast after all. But of course the only evidence of her breakfast was found in the crumbs on the counter and the neglected jam. Jane puts the lid back on with more force than necessary and puts the jar back in the fridge. (Honestly, how hard is that?) She tries to summon her last shred of patience.

“What? Why not?” Sherlock asks from behind her making her jump.

“Because. I had a _row_ , in the shop, with the chip-and-PIN machine!” she says her voice rising to a shout by the end.

Sherlock takes a brief step back, and arches a sarcastic eyebrow. “You got in a fight with a machine?”

“Well…more like shouted abuse at it until I was forced to leave,” she says raising her chin.

“Jane Watson,” he admonishes. “Did you actually get evicted from a public place of business? I _am_ a bad influence on you. If you’re not careful you could wind up with an ASBO.”

“They didn’t throw me out, you clot. Card wouldn’t work. Do you have cash?”

Sherlock smirks and grabs his wallet off the kitchen table. “Take my card.” He holds it up to her, and she snatches it.

“Y’know. You could do the shopping yourself for a change. You’ve barely moved since I’ve left. And what about the missing diamond case? Did the client come by?”

“Not interested,” Sherlock says and makes his way out into the sitting room. He picks up a saber that was sitting on Jane’s chair and admires it. Jane eyes it suspiciously, but decides not to comment.

“Not interested? How can that not be interesting? You know, spies, ‘Diamonds Are Forever’ that sort of thing,” she says.

“Diamonds are forever? That sounds familiar, where have I heard it?” Sherlock says and thumps the saber down at his feet with his hands folded over the hilt. With a cap and an eye patch he could pass as a pirate. The thought makes her smirk.

“James Bond.” He blinks at her in bewilderment. “Oh my god. You’ve never seen a James Bond movie have you?”

“Jane, of the wealth of information I have stored in my Mind Palace, pop culture is most definitely in the dungeon being tortured mercilessly.” He smiles good-naturedly. “You really should be going. There is still a deplorable lack of milk in the flat.” He flicks her pony tail off of her shoulder so it swings behind her. She huffs.

“All right. But you are going to sit through a [Bond](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1808017) film with me if it’s the last thing I do. You never know it might come in handy one day.”

“Doubtful,” Sherlock sniffs and slides the saber into the stand with the fireplace poker. He flops down in his armchair and tents his fingers, and Jane knows that it would be pointless to get anything else out of him. And because the shopping still needs to get done she heads back out for the second time.

* * *

“Bored,” Sherlock moans to no one in particular. It took him a moment to realise that he was alone in the flat. (How long does it take to do the shopping anyway?) If Jane were here she would complain and tell him that she wasn’t there for his entertainment and then proceed to entertain him anyway by asking him about his latest experiment or reading aloud to him an interesting fact from one of her medical journals. 

At first he found these things annoying, never having had anyone like her around. But then the line between annoying and expected began to blur, and if he were ever honest with himself, he was secretly pleased when she prodded and pestered. She took it upon herself to take care of him when too many days went by and he forgot to eat. Or when his frantic mind spiraled out of control and kept him awake for hours and hours she would come downstairs and listen to him play his violin until she fell asleep in the arm chair that she quickly adopted as hers. He didn’t know if she knew this, but lulling her to sleep was sometimes the only thing that eased the tempest in his mind. It was…nice having her around.

But also strange. For example, the bathroom smelled nicer than it ever had before which for all of Sherlock’s deductive prowess couldn’t explain. It wasn’t as if she had an over abundance of lotions or hair products that women were typically wont to have. Jane had no need for anything other than the practical. (Unlike his last female flatmate. Seriously who needed that many brands of hand soap?) Sherlock just figured it was a constant for girls to just smell nice all the time.

He sighs and unfolds himself from his chair and walks into the bathroom. Sure enough it smells like mint from the toothpaste they both share, and a vague scent of…apples. He spins around and picks up Jane’s bottle of shampoo and inspects it. It’s the same brand she always uses, and he knows it smells like lemon and roses. He flicks open the cap anyway and sniffs. He can’t help but smirk. This was becoming a game of sorts, and he clicks the bottle closed and continues his search for the mysterious aroma.

The medicine cabinet held nothing new, and neither did the drawers. He leaves the bathroom and follows the smell of apples — no apple blossom — up the stairs to Jane’s room. There on the small dressing table, he spots the culprit: a small bottle of hand crème.

“Aha. Getting a bit frivolous aren’t we, Jane?” he says and twists off the cap. He inhales deeply, the airy scent filling his nostrils. That didn’t last very long, but at least it distracted him from the boredom for a short time. He puts his hands on his hips and stands in the middle of the room and huffs out an annoyed breath.

That’s when he notices.

Jane’s bed, usually fastidiously made down to the very last hospital corner, was a disaster. The sheets were tangled and dipping to the floor, and the duvet was crumpled unceremoniously in a ball at the foot. He gets closer and sees that the nightstand is in disarray, the lamp shade crooked and an old glass of water tipped over. He rights the glass, his mind working. (Ah yes. Nightmare. Of course.)

Wait. Jane was having nightmares?

Oh.

Sometimes he forgets these things about Jane, forgets that her very nature is contradictory. The healer, and the warrior. The saviour and the avenger. SoldierDoctor. DoctorSoldier.

He sits on the side of her bed, bouncing a bit, and stretches out on his back with his hands clasped over his stomach. He tries to picture what goes through her head during her nightmares, and his eyes trace the crack in her ceiling.

Sherlock knows he used to dream before...before his experimentation with recreational substances burnt it out of him. He doesn’t remember when the dreams stopped, only that he became aware of the blackness after he became sober. The fact never bothered him before, but this new data about Jane fascinates him. He wonders if she would be amenable to telling him about them in the future. Or…there was always the scientific approach. (An interesting possibility which requires further examination to be sure.)

He heaves himself up and looks around the room once more. He smiles when he spies her red laptop. 

“Let’s see if you managed to stump me this time,” he chuckles and makes his way downstairs, computer tucked under his arm.

***

Sherlock flicks through his emails when a name he hasn’t heard in years catches his eye: Sebastian Wilkes. He frowns, unsure whether or not to open it, and his eyes flick to the skull on the mantle. The subject line reads, _A Proposition_ , and his nose wrinkles in distaste before his clicks it.

“Don’t worry about me!” Jane’s voice rings out from the hall. “I can manage!” She bangs into the kitchen, her arms laden with bright yellow shopping bags.

“Well if you’re sure,” Sherlock grunts, and opens a separate window.

“Sarcasm, Sherlock,” Jane huffs, and piles the groceries onto the counter. “Here’s your bloody milk by the way. The price of it’s gone up again so try to make it last,” she frets and crams it into the fridge. She comes out into the sitting room and blows a breath out through her mouth that makes her fringe fly up. Sherlock glances at her, and her eyes narrow. “Is that my computer?”

“Of course,” he says and starts to type.

“What? Why are you using mine? Again.”

“Yours was more convenient.”

“Mine was upstairs,” she says and strides over to slam it shut. “Prat. It is password protected.”

“Come on, Jane. ‘GoawaySherlock’ is hardly Fort Knox.”

She grumbles and makes her way over to her chair, when she backtracks suddenly and inspects the dagger embedded in the mantle piece. “Sherlock are these the bills?”

“Mm?” he says not really paying attention. He folds his hands and rests his chin on top.

“Some of these are alarmingly close to being past due!” she says as she releases them from where they were pinned. She sighs heavily and sinks down into her chair. “Need to get a job.”

Her resigned tone snaps Sherlock out of his reverie. “Why would you do something like that?” he asks.

“Bills, Sherlock! I don’t know about you, but I am rather fond of our electricity and occasionally eating food from time to time.”

“Eating. Dull.”

“Well maybe for you, but not for me,” she sighs and bites her bottom lip like she does when she’s worried or nervous. Suddenly his mind is made up. He knows Sebastian works as a pretty powerful Investment banker, and the email did mention an incentive. Not like such things mattered to him, but they obviously mattered to Jane. If only to get her to stop fretting (which was annoying by the way) he figured it wouldn’t hurt to…take a look around.

“The bank,” he states getting to his feet.

“Sorry?” Jane says pausing with a bill in each hand, her brow furrowed.

“I need to go to the bank,” he says and hauls her out of the flat by her wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have to say I've had guys roommates before and they've admitted to going through my smelly things simply because they couldn't understand why I had to smell so good all the time. Boys are weird. This is how I picture Sherlock being hah.
> 
> And like before I will be updating underlined words to links to my Afters collection, so stay tuned!
> 
> *Links updated!


	2. Graffiti at the Bank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Sherlock investigate the break-in at the bank, and some of Sherlock's past is revealed.

* * *

After being dragged back out for the third time that day, and manhandled unceremoniously into a cab, _and_ left to endure her flatmate’s pensive silence, Jane is beginning to regret ever waking up at all. 

“So the bank?” Jane says as they pull up to the massive business district with glittering skyscrapers and important business types bustling to and fro amongst the square. Sherlock weaves in an out of the crowd nimbly, and Jane struggles to keep up because, apparently, she’s invisible. She represses a growl of frustration as another man with a briefcase and a palm pilot runs into her. She has to trot to keep up with Sherlock as he disappears into a building with glass revolving doors. “You _bank_ here?” she snorts as she joins him on the escalator.

“We’re meeting an old acquaintance of mine. Apparently there’s been some sort of break in…” Sherlock says in a distracted manner, and Jane notices how his eyes flit about absorbing absolutely everything. They look extra blue today, cerulean even. But it’s not his eyes that catch her attention. It’s the hard furrow of his brow and the tension in his mouth that belies something other than his trademark scrutiny and concentration. He seems…nervous? But that couldn’t be right, could it?

“An acquaintance? From where?” Jane asks.

“We were at Uni together,” Sherlock says and turns up his collar with a stiff tug indicating the conversation was over. He marches up smartly to the desk marked Shad Sanderson and takes off his gloves. “Sherlock Holmes. I have an appointment,” he says to the receptionist.

“Of course,” she says and leads them through a maze of cubicles to an office with the gold lettering of ‘Sebastian Wilkes’ on the front where a man in a sharp suit and oiled hair sits behind an ostentatious desk.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man says getting to his feet with a toothy grin.

“Sebastian.” He comes over and grips Sherlock in a firm handshake.

“Howdy, buddy. How long’s it been? Eight years?”

“Eight next [Thursday](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1812003)," Sherlock says as if by rote. Jane turns to him. Dates aren’t really important to Sherlock. Half the time he doesn’t know when one week ends and the other begins, but for some reason next Thursday is important. Wilkes doesn’t seem to register this fact, but Jane can feel the tension practically rolling off Sherlock as if in waves.

“Right,” he says smiling widely again, and he turns to Jane his eyebrows raising to his hairline. “And who is this?” he says smoothly and extends his hand.

“This is my friend, Jane Watson,” Sherlock says a slight edge to his voice that would otherwise be imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him.

 _“Friend?”_ he says incredulously and Sherlock bristles. 

Trying to keep the peace, Jane jumps up and says, “Colleague.” Sherlock reels back slightly, and she realises she misinterpreted. _Bit Not Good._ She clears her throat.

“Right,” Wilkes says unctuously, drawing the word out, and Jane can’t wait to get her hand back from the pompous sod. He holds her fast and turns her hand wrist up so he can place a kiss to her skin. Jane has to fight the urge to gag. “Well it is my pleasure, Ms. Watson.”

“Doctor,” Sherlock interrupts. He sits crisply in the leather chair in front of the desk.

“Is that so?” Wilkes says and makes his way back to his chair. “Do you want anything, Jane? Water? Coffee?”

“Erm. No. Thanks,” Jane says and takes the chair next to Sherlock. She smoothes her hair back nervously.

“So,” Sherlock says putting an ankle atop his knee. “You’re doing well. You’ve been abroad a lot.”

“Ah well. Some.”

“Some? Flying all the way ‘round the world twice in a month?” Sherlock say arching an eyebrow. Jane looks at him and waits for the whirlwind of deductions.

Wilkes leans back with a chuckle and that smarmy grin crawls across his face again. “You’re doing that thing.” He looks at Jane. “We were at Uni together. Holmes had this trick he used to do —”

“It’s not a trick —” Sherlock says.

“— He could look at you and tell you your entire life story,” Wilkes says right over Sherlock almost with a sneer. Sherlock looks at the ceiling and bites his lip impatiently.

“Yes I know. I’ve seen him do it. It’s amazing…” she says and his eyes snap to her.

“Amazing! Hah!” Wilkes says. “He put the wind up everybody. We hated him!”

“You didn’t used to hate me, Seb. Before you fell in with your mates from Chi Epsilon. Or maybe you forgot?” Sherlock says with a polite biting acerbity. Wilkes’s smile is quite literally wiped from his face for a second.

“I’m afraid the hero-worship was _Victor’s_ area of expertise,” Wilkes returns with the same amount of vitriol in his tone lurking under that false smile that Jane is _really_ beginning to hate. “How is ‘ol Vick anyway?”

Sherlock pales, and his eyes drift to the floor. Jane shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“So go on, then,” Wilkes continues, twisting the knife. “Tell me. How did you know I’d been abroad? You gonna tell me there’s a stain on my tie from a special kind of ketchup you can only get in Manhattan?”

“No I —”

“Or-or maybe it’s the mud on my _shoes!”_ he says barking out a laugh.

“Actually your secretary told me. I was just chatting with her outside,” Sherlock says inspecting his fingernails casually.

Wilkes laughs humourlessly, and claps his hands together. “Yes. Well let’s get down to business, shall we? It appears we’ve had a break in.”

“Lead on,” Sherlock says, and rises imperiously to his feet. Wilkes nods and rises likewise. 

As they are walking back through the forest of cubicles, Jane grabs Sherlock’s sleeve.

“A break in? This is hardly worth your time, Sherlock,” she says under her breath as Wilkes stops to chat with his secretary.

“Why don’t I be the one to judge what is _worthy of my time,”_ Sherlock says dangerously. “If I require the opinion of my _colleague_ then I will ask for it.”

Jane snaps her head back as if Sherlock’s words physically stung her. Which in a way they did.

“Look I didn’t —”

“In here,” Wilkes says and presses a card to the electronic key pad. The door clicks open and he ushers them into another office lavishly overlooking London. Jane gasps.

On the white wall hangs a painting of a respectable and serious looking man. Or what was once respectable seeing as how a stark slash of spray paint has been leveled across his eyes. On the wall next to the portrait is a sigil of some sort that almost resembles a figure eight. The paint runs in some places making tracks down the wall.

This, however, isn’t what causes Jane’s surprise.

“It’s _yellow!”_ she exclaims. And Wilkes and Sherlock turn to look at her at the same time, Wilkes with a condescendingly amused expression and Sherlock with a curious frown. She doesn’t really notice either of them as she walks up to the paint to examine it more closely. It’s yellow, and more importantly, she can _see it._ She’s positively thrilled.

“Erm, yes. Sir. William’s former office. He used to be the bank Chairman. This office has been left as a memorial of sorts. The break in was late last night,” Wilkes says.

“What did they steal?” Jane asks stepping closer to the wall.

“Not a thing. Just left the message.”

“How many ways into this office?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

“That’s the thing…” he says, and holds the door open for them to follow him out. Sherlock begins to follow and then stops, rolling his eyes. He walks back over to where Jane is stood, and drags her away from the novelty of the yellow paint.

***

“As you can see, every open door, every cupboard — every _toilet_ — gets logged in here,” Wilkes says showing Sherlock the records back at the reception desk.

“Ah. That door didn’t open at all last night,” Sherlock says straightening from his half stooped position.

“It seems as if we have a hole in our security. If you find it, I’ll pay you. Five figures,” he says and pulls out a cheque from his breast pocket. “This is an advance. If you tell us how he got in there’ll be more on the way.” He holds the cheque out to him, and Sherlock’s eyes narrow before he plucks it from his fingers. That greasy smile has returned on Wilkes’s face, and Sherlock hands the cheque out to Jane.

“Take care of this will you?” he says, before turning back to Wilkes. “I’ll need to look around. Shouldn’t be long.” He breezes passed them in a whirl of his coat.

Jane looks down at the cheque and she stutters. “This is five thousand pounds,” she says.

“And there’s more where that came from if your colleague can figure all this out,” Wilkes says.

“If any one can figure out what’s going on it’s Sherlock,” Jane says, and she goes off in search of him tucking the cheque safely into her wallet.

She finds him on the balcony of Sir Williams’s office surveying London, and leaning over the rail to look below. She comes out and goes to stand beside him. He stiffens at her presence, his knuckles turning white from gripping the railing. Jane notices how he sways slightly and has to close his eyes at the sudden onset of vertigo, but he addresses her in a steady voice nonetheless.

“The door to the balcony was unlocked,” he says shaking his head a little before looking at her.

“You think they got in through here?” she asks incredulously and leans forward to look over the edge. Before she can ask anything else, she is being hauled back from the railing and shoved roughly into the office. “Hey! What —?”

“I don’t _know_ how they got in, but could you just — just —” he falters.

“Just _what?”_ she demands.

“I don’t know! Stay out of my way, perhaps?” he shouts, breathing heavily. His eyes are wild and he has a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. She looks back out the window and for the first time realises how high up they are. And how they were practically dangling over the edge a moment ago. She’s suddenly reminded of a conversation they had months back when they had first met:

_“Penchant for rooftops?” she asked as he walked up to look over the ledge of the roof of the Canadian Embassy. He inhaled sharply as she leaned over likewise to look at the ground below._

_“Not really, no. I hate heights,” he said and hopped up on the ledge so he could sit facing the London skyline. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before looking down._

At the time she thought he was just being contrary, but when she remembers how his voice shook ever so slightly, she now began to think otherwise.

“All right,” she says holding up her hands. “Go do…what ever. Just don’t hare off without me.”

Sherlock nods and adjusts his scarf. At first he makes an abortive gesture towards her, but then thinks better of it and turns on his heel.

Jane bites her lip thoughtfully, and ventures out in his wake, always in his wake.

***

Later she watches as Sherlock bobs his way in and out of the cubicles, dark head disappearing and reappearing like some deranged gopher.

“He’s mad,” Wilkes says next to her making her jump. “How do you stand him?”

“It’s not hard really,” Jane says. “Especially when he’s being brilliant.”

“Brilliant, yeah,” Wilkes says trailing off. “So you guys are colleagues?”

“Yes. Friends, actually. And flatmates,” she says.

“Oh. And you’re not…?”

“Not what?”

“Together?” he chuckles. “I’ve never seen Holmes really interact with the opposite sex. Never seemed interested...”

“No we’re not together,” Jane says and clasps her hands behind her back as she continues to watch Sherlock.

“Mm. Shame that. Shame for him,” Wilkes says and tucks a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. She clenches her jaw, and steps back slightly. “We should get drinks some time.”

“Ah no. As far as I’m concerned this is a job, and that would hardly be professional,” Jane says. The only thing that’s keeping her from chinning the arrogant ponce is the little cheque tucked away in her wallet. Sherlock was apt in taking it, and if that were the case he must need it for something important if he was willing to put up with the likes of one Sebastian Wilkes. The thought had her concerned. She needed to get a job that was for sure.

“Professional? What’s a drink among acquaintances?” Wilkes says and he subtly moves closer to her.

“I don’t frequent the pub with strangers,” she says trying to move away. “How do I know you won’t stick me with the tab?” she tries to joke. He grins wolfishly, and the sight of his white even teeth suddenly irritates her. He is obviously a man that doesn't take no for an answer, and nine times out of ten, gets his way.

“Who says we’re strangers? I happen to know quite a bit about you, Ms. Jane Watson. For example, I know you probably served in the military, am I right?” Jane narrows her eyes and he presses on. “What was it? The Army?”

She raises her chin and tries to answer him casually even though her temper is beginning to spike. “That’s right. RAMC. How did you know?”

“Like I said, Holmes and I go way back. He might have taught me a trick or two. Nothing useful, of course, but it’s given me insight when it comes to reading people and in my line of business, reading people is everything,” he says.

“Well then I think you might need more practise,” Jane says scooting away even further. Her back hits the wall where she’s literally backed into a corner in the little alcove they were standing in. If any one of the dozens of people in the cubicles are watching, they pretend not to notice, the tossers.

“You think so?” Wilkes says looming over her. Jane wonders how many other women found themselves in this same position, and the thought makes her ill. That was the problem with people in positions of power: they thought they could take what ever they wanted. She saw it many times when she was in the Army -- this gross treatment towards women especially. It's something she never put up with then, and she would be damned if she were to start now. “Maybe you can give me a few pointers?” He brushes his knuckles over her cheek, and right over the edge of Jane's tolerance.

In an instant, Jane's vision goes red, and in her mind she maps out at least seven different ways to incapacitate the aresehole -- four of which are lethal. Before she has a chance, however, Wilkes is suddenly yanked away from her and slammed into the wall by his lapels in a fury of whirling black. If looks could kill, Jane is sure Wilkes would be nothing more than a pile of ash under the weight of Sherlock’s incendiary gaze.

“Woah! Hey take it easy, buddy we were just —”

“I’m not your _buddy_ , Seb,” Sherlock bites out and releases him with another shove just as a pair of security guards round the corner.

“No it’s all right!” Wilkes says smoothing his suit jacket back into place. “We’re fine here.” He ushers the guards away and they leave reluctantly, eyeing Sherlock. “Need I remind you that you are under my employ for the time being, Holmes?” Wilkes intones.

Sherlock cocks his head and in a tone dripping with disdain he says, “You may have hired me for my services, Sebastian, but let’s not forget whom really needs whom in this equation. I believe in your correspondence you mentioned a certain measure of discretion which the police cannot afford you, and if you really care about your investors here at Shad Sanderson, you will realise I am the only thing you have that can save your public image.” He sneers looking down his nose.

Wilkes smiles bitterly and huffs a laugh through his teeth. “Fair enough, Holmes. Will you still take the case?”

“I will. But after I solve this, and you pay me what is due, I _never_ want to hear from you again. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Wilkes says in his clipped tones. His eyes travel over Jane one last time, and she represses a shudder. “Pleasure doing business.”

Sherlock gives an ironic tilt of his head and he holds a hand out to Jane. “Come on, we’re done here.”

Jane doesn’t say the slew of truly appalling things pressing against her teeth, and gratefully takes Sherlock’s hand where he practically drags her away from that hateful office. He doesn’t let go of her until they are out of the building.

“So, erm…you didn’t want to sniff around here for a bit longer, then?” Jane asks trotting to keep up, attempting to shake the last vestiges of her anger.

“Got everything I needed to know, thanks,” Sherlock says striding back across the plaza.

“You did?”

“The graffiti was a message for one of the traders on the floor. If we find who the message was for, then…”

“…they’ll lead us to the messenger,” Jane finishes triumphantly.

“Obvious.”

“But there must have been over three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?”

“Pillars,” Sherlock says stiffly. “And the screens. Very few places you can see the graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And the fact the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. Traders come in at all hours, some doing business with places like Hong Kong in the middle of the night. Edward Van Coon,” Sherlock says pulling out a door tag and showing it to her. “Hong Kong Desk Head. He was in at midnight, and the message was meant for him.”

“Fantastic,” Jane says looking at the door tag.

“Obvious,” Sherlock says again, but the ice has melted somewhat from his tone. “Shall we pay Mr. Van Coon a visit?”

“I think we should,” Jane says, and follows him to the street where he calls for a taxi.

***

“Listen,” Jane says sometime later. “What you did back there…thank you, um, for that.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock says, not bothering to turn away from the window.

"Not like I couldn't have handled it myself of course," she says.

"Obviously," Sherlock says quickly.

"Right..." An awkward silence fills the cab once more. Jane won’t be cowed by it, however, and she clears her throat.

“He deduced me,” she says, and at this Sherlock turns to her.

“What did he say?”

“He said he knew I was in the Army.”

“Oh. Anybody could tell you that if they knew where to look,” he says dismissively. “You tend to slip into parade rest when you are trying to be formal, or when you are feeling threatened.”

She bites her lip. “He said you and he went way back and you taught him a few things. About reading people.”

Sherlock stiffens and glares back out the window. She presses on.

“What happened between you two?”

“We had a falling out, if you must know. Other than that there is nothing else to tell,” he replies as if by rote.

“Why are you taking this case, then? He’s a tosser,” she says.

“I have my reasons,” he says in clipped, defensive tones.

“Which are…?”

“ _None_ of your business,” he snaps.

“All right. Fine,” Jane says with a sigh. “It’s just he was a right bastard. I don’t see how you were ever friends with him.” She turns to look out her own window as silence envelopes them once more. She takes to counting the traffic lights to pass the time, because apparently, it’s going to be a long and uncomfortable ride. She gets up to seven, when Sherlock starts speaking again.

“He wasn’t always a bastard,” Sherlock says quietly, and Jane turns to him. “He…he was awkward; an outcast like myself. We shared a common rapport through music. Before he was pressured into banking by his father, he had entertained thoughts of becoming a concert cellist.” He drums his fingers lightly against his knee, and Jane recognises that it is the silent melody of a song only he can hear. “For a long time it was just the three of us.”

“Three?” Jane asks. 

“Sebastian, myself, and…Victor. Victor Trevor.” Sherlock pauses here, his gaze still trained on London as it passes them by in a blur. Jane waits patiently, and hopes he keeps talking. “Victor was older than us by a year. He knew Sebastian mutually, his father working at the bank the elder Mr. Wilkes was Chairman of. The very first time I met him, his dog bit me in the ankle, and I needed to get four stitches.” He says it as if he were reading a fact instead of telling a cheery anecdote, and the combination of the two makes Jane laugh.

“His dog?” she giggles, and he looks at her then with a curious expression.

“Yes,” he says, a tone of fondness creeping into his voice. “It was a bull terrier. I think he named it Rasputin.”

“What a terrible name,” Jane remarks.

“I told him the same thing,” he grins.

“Did you have a falling out with Victor too? Is that why I’ve never heard of him?”

Sherlock’s smile fades, and his eyes darken. “No. He died. Almost ten years ago, now.” Jane sucks in a sharp breath. “Mr. Trevor was embezzling money from Wilkes’s bank and Victor got caught in the cross fire. Seb began spreading rumours that the only reason Victor could afford Cambridge in the first place was due to his father’s thievery. It wasn’t true of course. His grandmother left him an inheritance, but it didn’t matter; his reputation was tarnished. And in the upper echelons of society, reputation is everything. Eventually indictments against him went under way, and he was accused of being involved in the process…”

“What happened?” Jane asks in a hushed voice. Sherlock closes his eyes briefly.

“He killed himself before the hearing. The pressure and the lies were just too much for him,” Sherlock says in a flat voice. “Needless to say Seb and I never really saw eye to eye after that. The last time I saw him before today was eight years ago when I proved Victor’s innocence. We haven’t spoken since.” The drumming on his knee stops and he swallows almost audibly. Before she can even think about it, Jane takes his hand in hers.

“Listen, I know how you think condolences are a waste of breath, but for what it’s worth, I am truly sorry, Sherlock.”

He frowns, his eyes the colour of ocean searching her face. What ever he’s looking for he apparently finds it because a moment later he nods and looks back out the window.

“Thank you,” he says, and if he squeezes her hand before letting go, well, Jane wouldn’t be the one to mention it.

Instead she smirks, “Go on. Amaze me with how you knew the pompous toss-pot was abroad. I _know_ you didn’t talk to his secretary.”

Sherlock chuckles and launches into something about datelines and the newest Breitling wrist watch model that only just came out February, and Jane can’t help but grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading! I really appreciate it! All feedback and comments are welcome!
> 
> *I made a slight edit, and made Victor a year older as opposed to a year younger. Because: reasons...  
> **And it was recently brought to my attention that something was missing in Jane's interaction with Wilkes, so I tweaked that as well.


	3. Strange Predicament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Sherlock drop in on Edward Van Coon...
> 
> Or...the one where Sherlock has feelings and Jane has a fit of giggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends. Here's another chapter. I must admit I've taken quite a lot of liberties with this revamp of TBB because, let's face it, it's not one of the better episodes (at least to me). But then again...fuck it it's an AU! I hope you guys like it because I had a blasty blast writing it, and wasn't expecting some of the things to happen the way they did. (No, seriously, I think I was on crack.) Anyways. Thanks for reading as always, and comments are most appreciated!

* * *

Sherlock spends the remainder of the cab ride observing Jane in the reflection of his window. He flexes the hand that she held, and runs his thumb over the pads of his other fingers amplifying the sense memory of her warm ones laced through his. It wasn’t the first time she’d grabbed his hand, but usually it was only out of necessity or as a means to an end. This was different. Something he was unaccustomed to; it was a gesture of comfort. (Why? Why does she do these things?) 

Jane bites her bottom lip in thought as she stares out her own window, not really paying attention to the sight of London rushing by them in its usual swirl of chaos. Not for the first time, he wonders what the world looks like through her eyes. If the incident with the paint was any indication, her colour blindness was back, or most of it anyway. 

She explained it once to him. It wasn’t just the grey tones that bothered her; it was the fact that the world reflected the lifelessness she once felt inside of her.

The thing about Jane Sherlock was coming to realise, was that she was a vector of purpose. When she became invalided that all changed, and the world she had known for so long suddenly vanished, leaving her bereft and directionless. Based on his understanding, her psychosomatic blindness disappeared when she felt useful somehow. (But surely Jane knew how instrumental she was? She was incandescent; his [conductor of light.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1841532)) It was perplexing to say the least. She sighs, and Sherlock focusses on the reflection of her once more.

Her hand comes up to scratch the side of her face absently where a strand of hair brushed against it, and Sherlock is reminded of how it was Sebastian’s hand that had caressed her cheek moments ago. The memory, strong in his mind’s eye, is vivid enough to make his blood boil all over again. He saw the perverse glint in Seb’s eyes, and the way his gaze raked over Jane from head to toe made him nauseous. And when he touched her and Sherlock saw her recoil in disgust, her back hitting the wall — (a feralness coming over her ready to attack or go down fighting) something inside him snapped like a tightly coiled wire.

He looks down at his palm again, frowning slightly. No one should touch Jane. It was just…wrong. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out why this thought kept circling around and around in his head, but he knew it was right some how. (No one should touch her. No one but _him._ ) Sherlock threw this alarming bit of information into a metaphorical box in which he slammed the lid shut and stored it in the darkest corner of his Mind Palace. Now was not the time to be distracted by this ridiculous, _maudlin_ introspection. 

He looks over at Jane, indulging one last time in the way the weak March sunlight highlighted the gold and ash in her hair and brought out the green in her hazel eyes. She turns to look back at him just then, the corner of her mouth rising in a soft smile (his eyes flick to it and he notices a fine dusting of freckles on her bottom lip), and he turns away. 

The cab glides to a stop in front of a block of posh-looking flats, and Sherlock leaps out, leaving Jane to pay the fare much to her annoyance.

“You owe me twenty quid,” she grumbles as she strides up to where he is examining the building’s door buzzers and subsequent residents. He squints into the security camera mounted about the buttons and depresses the one marked ‘Van Coon’ and steps back to look up at the various geometrical balconies. He hits the button again already knowing it’s futile. (The paint was a message meant for Van Coon alone. A threat, then. Obviously.) Chances of him being inside are slim if he has any shred of intelligence.

“The floor above. Just moved in,” Sherlock says and points to the paper label with the name Wintle scrawled across it just above Van Coon’s.

“Okay…?” Jane says not seeing the point. (As per usual.) “Are we going to wait ‘til he comes back then?”

Sherlock doesn’t deign to answer this, instead he buzzes the new tenant. Like shrugging on a jacket, Sherlock changes into a different persona, hunching his shoulders slightly in a show of modesty and biting his lip.

 _“Hello?”_ the tinny voice on the other end says with amused surprise. (Female. Perfect. Smile diffidently.) Sherlock shifts to the right a bit to make sure the woman (single; late twenties; most likely has a proclivity for the tall, dark, and handsome; most likely _doesn’t_ like arrogance due to her independence) can’t see Jane through the camera.

“Um, hi. I live just below you. I’m not sure we’ve met.” (Widen eyes slightly, furrow brow plaintively.)

_“No. Well, see, I’ve just moved in…”_

“Right…” (Rub back of neck. Fumble with words.) “Actually I – I seemed to have locked my keys in my flat…” (Bite lip again furtively.)

 _“Oh! Do you want me to buzz you in?”_ (Franklin Effect: she’ll like him even more after she’s afforded him a kindness, which will make this next part easy.)

(Sigh in relief, smile in gratitude.) “That would be great. And…can I use your balcony?”

 _“…Sorry, what?”_

“Balcony?” Jane asks, but Sherlock pays neither one mind as the doors click open and he rushes inside.

***

After Sherlock charms his way through Ms. Wintle’s flat with Jane in tow, (much to Ms. Wintle’s disappointment) he stands on the balcony with his palms pressed together coming up to rest against his lips. He looks over the railing for the third time, and breathes deeply (and hopefully subtly) through his nose, regulating his heart rate and focussing on nothing but the task at hand. Detaching his transport which was prone to ridiculous reactions such as panic, from his methodical mind.

“Do you…?” Jane’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Do you want me to go? I could —” she makes to step up on the bottom rung of the metal railing.

“No!” Sherlock shouts, and yanks her back down. “Go down stairs and I will let you in through the front door,” he growls, summoning as much aggression as he could to bury the sound of his pounding heart.

“Okay, fine. But you better [let me in](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1847850) this time,” she says firmly stabbing her finger into his chest with frustration. Sherlock is amused at her sudden flare in temper, and after thinking about it, admits it probably was a bit confrontational of him to grab her by the waist and bodily move her away from the edge like he did. He waves a negligent hand.

“Yes, yes all right. Now leave, you’re in my way,” he says and flings his leg over the railing, resolutely ignoring the clanging against his ribs and ringing in his ears. Before she can say anything else, he jumps and lands somewhat gracefully on the balcony below and opens the sliding glass door with ease. (Not locked. Interesting. Make note.)

Van Coon’s flat is posh and modern just like the rest of the building implies with a minimalist feel; all white walls, digital thermostats, and uncomfortable furniture. His eyes rake over the tableau, consciously and subconsciously cataloguing the minutiae in front of him to store for later. He makes his way through the sitting room and pokes his head around the corner, finding a bathroom, sparse with nothing but hand soap on the counter. The kitchen was Spartan just as the rest of the flat with nothing but a coffee cup and an abandoned carving board with the remains of toast and jam. He makes his way down the hall to the bedroom, and tries the doors. They are locked, and his senses go on high alert. The front door buzzes, but Sherlock doesn’t hear over the sound of him shouldering open the doors with a bang.

The breath leaves him in a whoosh. 

There on the bed was a man sprawled backward over the duvet, his legs hanging off the edge with a gaping hole in his right temple.

For a moment the past and present collided, and Sherlock blinked rapidly against the images of his traitorous memory.

 _“Victor.”_ The name leaves his lips unbidden. He almost starts forward when the door buzzes again, and Jane’s voice pulls him out of the flashback. It’s too soon —all of it. Seeing Sebastian at the bank today caused the images from _that_ night to crash over him without warning. It’s too much…

“Sherlock? You all right? Any time you want to let me in…”

Not Victor, no. Van Coon.

He lets out a gusty breath he hadn’t know he’d been holding and catalogues the room one more time, the memories fading. He wipes a hand over his face and goes to let Jane in.

“It’s not suicide,” he says earnestly, cutting off her sarcastic and annoyed comment. Her brows come together and she assesses him from top to toe.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” she says, concern colouring her tone. “What suicide?” she pushes him aside and looks over the flat.

“No, Jane, _not_ suicide,” he says somewhat frantically and drags her into the bedroom so she could see because someone else had to…

“Oh,” Jane says under her breath, her face grim.

“You see? _Look._ The angles! They’re all…wrong,” he says, and breathes in sharply through his nose. The next thing he realises, he’s being ushered out of the bedroom and made to sit on the hard leather sofa. “What are you doing?” Sherlock says as Jane comes over with a glass of water. “You’ll contaminate the crime scene.” He takes a drink, regardless.

“I don’t care about the bloody scene,” Jane says and perches next to him. She takes his wrist and keeps time with her watch.

“I’m _fine_ , Jane,” he says but doesn’t make to pull his arm away. Her fingertips are soft and warm, and if he were wont to be honest with himself, he would consider that his existence was currently anchored to that small point of contact in the midst of the sudden swirling detritus in his head. He’s not honest with himself, however, and he throws this other bit of disconcerting information to the back corners of his mind.

“Of course you are,” Jane says softly with a wry smile. Suddenly he is ashamed at himself, and his eyes dart away from hers. She clears her throat, “See I told you this would happen, er, if you didn’t eat breakfast,” she throws out lamely.

Sherlock looks at her in surprise because a) that was patently untrue (he had eaten her toast earlier this morning much to her irritation) and b) as a doctor and a PTSD sufferer, there would be no way that Jane wouldn’t know, for all intents and purposes, the beginnings panic attack when she saw one.

“You know…” she continues. “Low blood sugar and all.”

At first he didn’t know what she was playing at, and his hackles rose of their own accord at what ever it was she was trying to imply. But she looks up at him sheepishly and unsure, a faint blush staining her cheeks, and he realises what she’s doing: she’s giving him an out. He takes it.

“Yes, um, quite careless of me,” he says continuing with the charade. He drains the remainder of the water in the glass, and slips it into his coat pocket for safe keeping. It would be _Bit Not Good_ if their fingerprints were to wind up as evidence. Sherlock gets to his feet, and without anything further, pulls out his mobile to call the police.

* * *

Jane looks down at Van Coon’s body, her back straight, and a deep frown creasing her brow. What did Sherlock see when he looked at him? To her it looked like a suicide: a hole in the right temple, the gun by his hand, and above all a locked room. She really didn’t want to bring it up — it had been a weird day for the both of them — but she worried that Sherlock was too close to this case to see properly. It was remembering the sight of his face when he finally opened the door that made her mind up.

“Are you sure, it’s not suicide, Sherlock? I mean, he could have just lost a lot of money. It’s not uncommon among city boys,” she says eyeing him warily as he rummages through a suitcase. He only pauses for just a moment before answering.

“Not suicide. Just look at the evidence, Jane,” he snaps. “Take his case for example. Been away three days by the looks of it.”

“And?”

“He was clearly right in the middle of something. Look at the way he kept his flat, and what that says about him; the man was meticulous. Suicides take planning especially for people who work so hard at hiding their suicidal ideations. Van Coon’s behaviour wasn’t out of the ordinary in the slightest to suggest he was unstable; he was a man to have all of his affairs in order. He wouldn’t be inclined to come straight home and off himself like some dramatic soap opera star.” Jane makes a face at the comment, but concedes the point. Living a double life — one where everyone believed you were functioning on the outside while on the inside you fell to utter shit — did take a lot of meticulous planning. She would know. “He wouldn’t have left his clothes in the case and the flat the way it is, and he _definitely_ would have left a note.”

“Right. Okay,” Jane says letting his deductions sink in. She can’t help but glance around for said note, however, just in case.

“Look at this. Something was in this case. Tightly packed, and fragile most likely.”

“Er, I’ll take your word for it,” Jane says as Sherlock absently holds a pair striped boxers by the hook of his index finger while his other hand continues to rifle. He looks up at her sarcastic tone.

“Problem?” He arches his trademark eyebrow.

“Yeah I’m not about to root around through some bloke’s dirty underwear,” she snorts looking at him pointedly.

He looks down at the boxers still dangling from his finger, failing to see what was wrong with the picture. He puts the underwear back with a look that says, _‘suit yourself’_ and strides over to the foot of the bed. “Then there are the symbols at the bank. What’s their purpose? If you wanted to convey a message why not e-mail?”

“Maybe he wasn’t answering,” she says.

“Ah. You follow,” he says taking out his pocket magnifier.

“No…”

Sherlock huffs an annoyed breath out of his nose and leans in over his prone form. “Think, Jane. What kind of message does everybody want to avoid? What about the letters you were looking at this morning?”

“What the bills?”

“Exactly. Threats. He was being threatened,” Sherlock says and carefully plucks a wad of paper out of Van Coon’s mouth. He holds it up to the light, and Jane can see it’s folded into a paper flower. She hands him an evidence bag.

“Bag the toothbrush, will you?” A young man in a plain suit and tie says from the doorway before walking into the room.

“Sergeant. We haven’t met,” Sherlock says making his way across the room. He takes off the latex glove of his right hand and offers it in a handshake to which the man looks down at disdainfully.

“I know who you are,” he says with a bit of a sneer, and Sherlock drops his hand. “And it isn’t Sergeant. It’s Detective Inspector. Dimmock. I would prefer it if you didn’t _tamper_ with any of my evidence.”

Jane and Sherlock share a wry look before he hands over the evidence bag with the flower. She can’t help but sneak a glance at Sherlock’s coat pocket where the small water glass from earlier is harbouring.

“Where’s Lestrade? I’ve phoned him, is he on his way?”

“He’s busy cleaning up after your last [fiasco](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1857413) and so he handed this one over to me. _I’m_ in charge.”

“What a fledgling like yourself all on your own?” Sherlock remarks in a scathingly impressed tone that makes the young DI’s face turn puce. Jane clears her throat in a mild warning. The men stare at each other a little longer in challenge before Dimmock adjusts his tie in an effort to remain professional.

“Well it’s obvious we’re dealing with a suicide.”

 _“Obvious?_ Hardly,” he derides. 

“What d’you mean? It’s the only possible explanation of all the facts,” Dimmock says.

“The only expl —” Sherlock cuts himself off pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s only _one_ explanation of _some_ of the facts.” The _‘you imbecile’_ was implied and not said, thankfully. “You’ve latched on to an easy solution and chosen to ignore anything you see that doesn’t comply with the like.”

“And that would be…?”

Sherlock levels a look at him, clearly at the end of his patience, but he has the foresight to glance at Jane to which she imperceptibly shakes her head. “The wound was on the _right_ side of his head. Surely you noticed?”

“And?”

“Van Coon was left handed,” Sherlock says and holds out his hands gesturing around the bedroom as if it were obvious. “Requires a bit of contortion, don’t you think? Awful lot of trouble just to _off_ yourself,” he says bluntly and pantomimes putting a gun up to his right temple with his left hand exaggerating the task. It’s so ridiculous that Jane covers her mouth with her hand to suppress a giggle much to the horror of the young DI that probably still had his decency left intact. 

They are, after all, still in the presence of a man who just died.

 _‘Semantics,’_ Sherlock’s bored voice echoes in her head. Which was strange because he was standing right in front of her. Oh god. She was hearing him in her head now. And he was _bloody standing right there_. Arching that _stupid_ eyebrow. It was just too much. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, trying to stifle the escaping laughter as she turns her back to the two of them. She manages to stop the utter guffaw from coming out of her mouth, but just barely, her shoulders shaking and her eyes stinging.

“Are you all right, Miss?” Dimmock says, and she feels a hand on her back. It’s at that moment when Jane realises that she got it all wrong; the young DI, still wet behind the ears, thinks that she’s crying not laughing. Because she’s a girl, probably and therefore ‘delicate.’ For some reason this is even funnier, and Jane found herself in one of the strangest predicaments she ever thought possible. And completely incapable of composing herself. She wipes the back of her hand against her watering eyes. “I know these things can be hard and if you need a moment —”

Suddenly, Inspector Dimmock’s comforting hand is shoved away, and she is being gathered close to Sherlock’s chest in an embrace.

“I’ll take it from here, _Inspector._ You know how it is. Hormones,” Sherlock says, and Jane wraps an arm around his waist so she could surreptitiously pinch him in the side as she tries rein in a new torrent of giggles. There was definitely something wrong with her. “We’ll meet you in the sitting room in a moment,” he says seriously and he makes his way to the bathroom with her sheltered under his arm.

“Take as much time as you need,” Dimmock says softly, and Jane wishes she could see Sherlock’s face, but she knows if she lifts her head from his shirt she’ll most definitely lose her shit.

“There, there, Jane,” Sherlock says just to spite her, and when they finally make it to the bathroom she thumps him hard in the arm as they both dissolve into fits of laughter. She tries to shush him, but it’s no use, and she resorts to putting her hand over his mouth as his baritone chuckle only gets louder. It was a small flat after all, and the last thing they needed was to be thrown off the scene for being completely inappropriate.

“You are ridiculous, Holmes,” she whispers when she’s finally calmed down enough to use actual words again. His quiet laughter continues to roll though his chest, and she presses against his lips even harder until he is forced to lean with his back against the door while she leans almost drunkenly against him. He stills just then, his eyes widening slightly, and she is struck by the swirl of gold in his technicolour irises.

“Gold and blue,” she murmurs happily, and Sherlock frowns. She blinks up at him, still grinning like an idiot, and he goes to say something, no doubt full of snark against the palm of her hand but she stops him. “God don’t you dare with all that. Do you want to get thrown off this case?” she says, her cheeks aching.

He quirks an eyebrow then, a mischievous gleam in his eye. Before she has a chance to register it, his tongue darts out and practically slobbers on her hand. She barely manages not to yelp in disgust and she jumps away.

“Really?” she says, holding her hand out. “You’re so immature.”

“This from someone who finds corpses amusing,” Sherlock drawls, folding his hands into his trouser pockets. “Coming?”

“Yeah hang on, I have to disinfect this,” Jane says and wiggles her fingers. He chuckles again as she turns on the sink and uses some of the hand soap on the counter.

“I’m sure Inspector Dimmock will overlook the fact that you’re getting your fingerprints all over everything if you start ‘crying’ again. He feels the need to protect your particular sensitivities.”

“Shut up, you,” she says flicking some water at him and drying her hands on her jeans. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes, let’s,” Sherlock says and before they leave the bathroom, he puts his arm around her again and looks at her as if daring her to challenge him otherwise. She shakes her head and they join the perplexed DI in the sitting room.

“Are you all right,” he asks Jane, and Sherlock tightens his hold just barely.

“Oh, yes. Quite all right. Sorry for the trouble,” she says trying to sound bashful. Sherlock drops his arm and strides to the middle of the room.

“As I was saying, it is highly illogical for a left handed man to shoot himself in the right side of his head. Are you getting this down, Inspector? Therefore someone broke in the flat and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts,” he says and ties his scarf where it had been hanging lax around his neck before.

“Hang on…” Dimmock says just now pulling a notepad out of his jacket pocket. “How do you even know he’s left-handed anyway?”

Sherlock hangs his head in a dramatic display of the long suffering. “Look. At. The. Flat. Inspector! I’m surprised you didn’t notice: coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug with the handle pointed to the left; power outlets, the left ones used habitually; pen and paper on the _left_ side of the phone because he answered it with his right and used to take messages with the left. Shall I continue?”

Jane pinches the bridge of her nose. “I think you’ve quite covered it.”

“Oh I might as well go on,” he says waving a dismissive hand. “I’m at the bottom of the list. Butter on the right side of the knife because he spread it with…any guesses?”

“All right, all right, you’ve made your point, ‘Professor of the Left-Hand Emporium’ give it a rest,” Jane says putting her hands on her hips.

“But the gun…” Dimmock says a little at a loss.

“He had it with him because he was being threatened. He was waiting for the killer.”

“He was threatened?”

“Today at the bank,” Jane pipes up. “Someone left him a message of a sort.”

“And he fired a shot when his attacker came in,” Sherlock says impatiently.

“And the bullet?”

“Went through the open window in the bedroom, obviously.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dimmock scoffs, “what are the chances of _that?”_

“Very good considering once you draw up the ballistics report you will find that the bullet in his head was fired from a different gun. Once you eliminate the impossible, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,” he says rocking on the balls of his feet with his hands smugly clasped behind his back. 

“Where did you get that load of tripe?” Dimmock says.

“It’s not _tripe,”_ Sherlock says incensed. “It is _fact.”_

“Then how did the killer get in? The room was locked from the inside.”

“Very _good_ Inspector. I knew your father promoted you for a reason. With questions like that you’re sure to make Chief in _no time.”_

“Okay,” Jane says and pushes Sherlock towards the door a little. “You’ve officially used up your allotted sarcasm for the day.” She shoots an apologetic look over her shoulder at the flustered DI.

“Call me when you have a _decent_ lead!” Sherlock growls just as Jane pushes the arrogant sod out into the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys know the drill...all underlined words will be updated in 'Afters' shortly. Thanks for reading!!!
> 
> * Links updated in Afters!


	4. Pub Chips and Origami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes so this chapter is quite domestic and is akin to what I normally write for 'Afters' but I put it in to the story arc because TBB has a lot of scenes that don't involve Jane or Sherlock, (like the appraisal at the museum etc.) and those aren't very interesting, so this is what I came up with. I hope you like it! Like I said your lovely comments have definitely stoked the flames of my creativity, and so this little ditty was up in no time. Thank you all so, so much. xxHoney

* * *

After the crime scene, Sherlock lapsed into a stony silence all the way back to the flat where he proceeded to drop Jane off and redirect the cab off somewhere else with out so much as a word. The message was clear though: she wasn’t needed apparently. Which wasn’t news to her, but still…

“Well,” Jane huffs as she watches the taxi depart Baker Street. “And he had the gall to remark on _my_ hormones.” He was such a drama queen sometimes with his mysterious _Sherlockness_ and his ruddy coat and his unpredictable mood swings. Jane shook her head and looked down at her watch. It was barely past noon, so she decided that instead of going back into the flat, she was going to get a basket of chips and a pint from the pub around the corner. Not the best lunch, admittedly, but it had already been one hell of a day so she didn’t feel too guilty.

The chips were hot and vinegar-y and the beer was ice cold, and she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.

“Been a rough day?” the man on her right asks her with a soft smile. He absently rubs his thumb against the rim of his own glass.

“You have no idea, and the day’s only half gone,” she replies licking a bit of salt off her fingers. He nods wearily and takes a deep gulp of his ale. “Here,” Jane says shifting the basket closer to him. “You look like you need some too.”

The man looks at her, his deep blue eyes shining behind his glasses. “All right,” he says and grabs a couple. His eyes widen comically, “These are _really_ good.”

“I know right?” Jane says.

“I’ve never been one to try dodgy pub chips,” he says.

“Shame, that.”

“I am seriously reassessing my decision from now on.”

“Oh I don’t know. Maybe some discretion should be in place when it comes to dodgy pub food,” Jane says and they both sneak a glance down the bar at a bloke with a suspicious looking bowl of stew. They look back at each other and break out laughing.

“I’m Stephen,” he says wiping his greasy fingers inelegantly on his corduroy suit jacket, like you do. “Stephen Sawyer.”

“Good to meet you, Stephen. I’m Jane Watson,” she says and takes his hand.

“So. What brings you here in the middle of the day?” Stephen asks helping himself to another chip.

“Just the usual: running around London, solving crimes, and taking a break from my insane flatmate,” she says and is rewarded with a laugh. Ironically she wasn’t even being facetious. “What about you?”

“Work is a madhouse right now. Two have gone off on holiday, and one’s just left on maternity leave. We’re a bit short staffed at the moment,” Stephen says and rakes a hand through his dark, tousled hair. “And then to top it all off, I got in a ruddy fight with the chip-n-PIN machine at the grocer’s,” he finishes sheepishly.

“You’re kidding,” Jane says gob-smacked.

“Sadly no. Not one of my proudest moments.”

“You’re not going to believe this, but the same thing happened to me this morning.”

“Come on,” he guffaws.

“No really! I had to go back a second time because I was just so angry I left all of my things there.”

“I think it’s the voice that gets me.”

“Yesss,” Jane hisses. “It’s her tone. ‘Item Not Scanned.’”

“‘Unexpected Item in Bagging Area.’” Stephen imitates. They both turn to each other and at the same time, “‘Card Not Authorised!’” and then collapse into laughter once more until Jane’s sides ache.

“In all honesty, those things don’t actually save as much time as you would think,” Stephen says after catching his breath.

“You don’t have to tell me. Like I said: I went back _twice.”_

“You are a brave soul, Miss Watson,” Stephen says and then frowns, “Or is it Mrs. Watson?”

“What? No. It’s Doctor, actually, if you wanted to be extra formal. But we’ve shared a basket of chips and the perils of machine warfare, so I think we’re beyond all that.”

“Doctor? You’re a doctor?” Stephen asks, an eager smile spreading across his face. “It seems destiny has a part to play in all this, Jane.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, amused and a little charmed at his boyish wistfulness.

“I’m the head GP at the local surgery not too far from here, Bell Cross Clinic and Emergency. I don’t know what you do besides fight crime,” he says with a cheeky smile, “but I am looking to hire someone who wouldn’t mind a bit of locum work.”

“No, actually that’s…quite a coincidence. I happen to be looking for a job,” Jane says smiling at the way he bites his bottom lip hopefully. It’s rather endearing.

“Excellent. Come by tomorrow with your CV and I’ll interview you straight away.”

“That sounds fantastic,” Jane says astounded at her turn in luck.

“Now, what say you to another pint?” Stephen says and taps the rim of her empty glass.

* * *

Sherlock pauses, his nimble fingers hovering over the crease in the paper he was folding, when he hears the front door open signifying Jane’s return. He listens as she practically skips up the steps, and bounds into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sherlock remarks before cursing under his breath and sucking on a newly acquired paper cut. “It’s hateful.”

“I am actually,” Jane says choosing to ignore this. “I’ve got a job interview tomorrow.”

“What? Where?” Sherlock asks finally looking up at this.

“The surgery a couple of blocks from here. It’s just locum work,” she says dismissively standing up on her tip-toes to reach the biscuit tin on top of the fridge.

“But I thought…” he trails off. He thought what? That she would just gallivant around London with him forever? (Yes that’s exactly what he thought, but he would hardly admit it.)

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock snaps, flipping the square of paper over. So consumed with his task he doesn’t hear when Jane finally walks into the sitting room with an astonished gasp.

 _“Sherlock,”_ she breathes stopping in the middle of the room with a mug of tea in each hand. “They’re _beautiful.”_

He looks up again at her awestruck tone and then around him where over a hundred paper flowers all of different size lay scattered about him. He tries to see what she sees, but all he sees is repurposed scrap paper, and the byproduct of his boredom. “They’re hardly that, Jane.”

“No really,” Jane insists and sets the mugs on the coffee table. She joins him on the floor, cross-legged and watches him intently. “I didn’t know you could do this.”

“It passes the time, I suppose,” Sherlock says and bend the folds back to create the inner ring of petals. They are silent as Sherlock flips it over once more and creates the outer ring. He places it in Jane’s palm.

“What kind is it?” she asks and touches it delicately with the tips of her fingers. Her wonder over the simplest things never fails to baffle him.

“It’s a lotus flower. Like the one found in Van Coon’s mouth. It’s significant somehow; used as a signature. I think we’re dealing with some kind of organisation, not just a singular assassin,” he muses as he sets to work on another one. Jane gathers them all up and orders them from big to small in front of her.

“What are you going to do with them?” she asks taking a sip of her tea.

“Oh throw them away probably.”

“What? Why?”

“They don’t serve any real purpose, Jane,” Sherlock scoffs.

“They don’t have to serve a purpose,” Jane says a little dejectedly, and Sherlock blinks up at her. “Sometimes things like this are just good to have around…just because.”

“Just because? Why would anybody keep anything around that wasn’t useful?” he argues.

“I don’t know. I guess you’re right…” she says biting her bottom lip. (She’s distressed, which only causes him more confusion.) “Can I keep them?” she asks suddenly.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock says still mystified. He feels like the conversation shifted somewhere along the way and they aren’t really talking about the flowers at all. Before he can say anything else, however, Jane gets to her feet and disappears up to her room. He looks down at the lotus in his hand, trying to discern what Jane found in the silly paper figures. 

A moment later Jane comes back down with a package of wire, all of different lengths, and it’s Sherlock’s turn to watch as she affixes one to the bottom of a lotus. She looks around for something, and then smiles as she grabs her now empty mug. She places the flower inside, and meticulously reaches for another one. One by one she arranges the lotuses into a mock bouquet, paying close attention to which once should go where based on size and length of stem.

Sherlock puts his elbows on his knees and tents his fingers against his lips as he watches her.

She takes to her task with such care and fondness, and it’s these glimpses of her complete and utter humanness that never fails to catch him by surprise. That Jane could find something so mundane as folded paper equal parts beautiful and novel was perplexing. (But is isn’t just about the flowers, is it?)

No it’s not about the flowers at all.

It’s about _purpose._

Jane became distraught at the concept that something should be thrown to the wayside if it was apparent that it was not useful in some way. Which, for all intent, Sherlock deemed his plight into meaningless Origami just that. 

_‘Sometimes things like this are just good to have around…just because.’_

It all made sense now.

Did Jane honestly liken herself to the discarded lotuses at his feet? Is that how she thought of him, that he would just mess her about until he got bored? Thinking back that wouldn’t have been far from the truth once. (And admittedly, it’s not like he showed her otherwise.) Oh, why did it all have to be so… _complicated?_ This is why he wanted Jane around in the first place, he thought her different, set apart from her emotions as far as the fairer sex was concerned. But apparently, she succumbed to his misgivings just as much as the next person. He thought they had an understanding; he thought she understood his numerous short comings as a decent human being. Was this how it started? Was Jane starting to realise just what came along with flatsharing with a sociopath? It was only a matter of time before she left like all the others…

“Blue and yellow,” Jane murmurs under her breath as she puts the last flower into the mug and holds it up at eye level, a soft smile curling her lips.

“What?” Sherlock says snapping out of his dark thoughts.

“You only used paper that was either yellow or blue,” she says and looks at him. “Why?”

“I —” Sherlock stops, puzzled at the question. He looks around and sees that she’s right. Subconsciously, he managed to gather scraps of paper only coloured yellow or blue; the colours she could see. He furrows his brow, at a loss for an explanation.

Jane smiles at him bashfully, but doesn’t say anything. Instead she gets up to put the mug on the mantle next to his skull.

It’s in that moment which Sherlock realises that Jane knows. Of course she knows.

It’s also when Sherlock realises that despite his best efforts, even his subconscious mind has aligned itself with everything that Jane is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BY the way...Dr. Stephen Sawyer looks like, if not exactly, [this.](http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lnj5lrxCJP1qi5ktmo1_500.jpg) Ahem. If you see where I'm going with this, kudos to you. :D


	5. Nowhere Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...in the 'nowhere' hours of the night they might as well have been the only two people on the planet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for more of that 'maudlin introspection!' Yay! Yes so here's another chapter that wildly diverts from the original because I wanted to put some stuff in on my own headcanon on things like Jane in Afghanistan, the night with the cabbie, and Sherlock's crisis of letting people in etc. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!!
> 
> *All links updated now!

* * *

For once, everything was in colour as the ground rushed up to meet her. Yellow, hot, sand gritting into her face as she succumbed to the fire in her chest. Slick blood, she knew it was crimson, started to taint her mouth, and more than anything she wanted to close her eyes and drift under that azure sky.

Oh god, Bill. She left Bill. In the shade of an outcrop of rock.

He made her [promise.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1868921)

_‘I’ll be back for you!’_ she had told him.

 _‘Promise me, Jane. You_ will _make it back to London,’_ he said, green eyes shining with pain and fear, but not for himself. Her heart breaking was worse than the hole in her shoulder.

 _‘We both will,’_ she vowed…

Jane jolts awake just in time to cut off the strangled yell leaving her throat. She jams a fist into her mouth, and breathes harshly around her knuckles as a fresh stream of tears soaks her cheeks. Frantically, she presses her free hand to her old wound as the phantom throbbing keeps time with her galloping heart. Her fingers scratch and dig like they did when she was trying to pull the shrapnel out of her own flesh before she realises what she’s doing, and forces herself to stop. 

Finally, when she feels like she’s no longer on the verge of screaming herself hoarse out of sheer pain and anger, she curls on her side and sobs quietly into her pillow.

A creak outside her door causes her to hold her breath. She turns to look over her shoulder, and sees a dark shadow underneath the crack of her door.

“Sherlock?” she asks, her voice thick. There was no use in pretending he wasn’t there. For a second she thought he would just go back down stairs and play his violin like he was wont to do, but after a moment she heard her door open. She keeps her back to the door.

“Jane? I heard — I was — are you all right?” he says, unsure.

“Fine,” she sniffs trying to stop the trembling that has taken residence in her aching muscles. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“I was up already,” Sherlock dismisses. She can hear him shuffle his feet. “I brought you a glass of water.”

Surprised, Jane blinks at the wall a few times before heaving herself up to sit up against the headboard. “You…brought me water?”

“Yes…” Sherlock says, the word sounding more like a question than an affirmation. He holds the glass awkwardly, and Jane can just make out his scowl in the dim street light from the window. It was his scowl when he thought he wasn’t getting something right.

“Okay. Thank you,” she says, and he crosses the room to hand it to her. She grasps it with her left hand intending to take a drink, but that traitorous tremor forces her to stop before she spills it all over the bedclothes. She doesn’t manage to catch the sob as it leaves her this time, and she closes her eyes in shame. She really, really didn’t want to be seen like this, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything seeing as how she was on the cusp of crying again. Before she can think about sinking through the floor in sheer mortification, she feels a dip beside her in the mattress, and a cool hand around hers. She opens her eyes, and in the dark she can see the soft understanding and confused concern in Sherlock’s expression. It seems to say _‘Please. What can I do? Please, let me help.’_ It’s so open and honest, the darkness probably lending to the fact, that Jane feels her defences crumble.

She nods briefly, and he helps bring the cool water up to her dry lips that still feel as if they are caked in sand.

“You should go back to sleep,” he says placing the glass on the bedside table. She laughs bitterly.

“Yeah like that’s gonna happen.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Absolutely shattered. But this will happen all over again if I close my eyes so…” she lets the sentence complete itself as she tips her head back against the wall. The images, like flashbulbs, burst behind her eyes. She’s shaking again by the time Sherlock gets up. She doesn’t want to look at his retreating form — because the thought of him leaving unexpectedly twists something painful in her chest — so she observes her cracked, attic ceiling.

Suddenly the duvet is pulled back, and Jane sees Sherlock drape his blue robe over the small chair next to the table, before crawling in beside her. He lays there on his back as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Jane is stunned out of her dark thoughts for a moment.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

“If I’m here you can sleep,” he says simply.

“How do you figure?”

“It’s been scientifically proven that people who suffer from night terrors sleep better when they know they are not alone. It’s only logical.”

“Logical?”

“Yes, Jane,” he says becoming impatient. “You need your rest.”

“What about you?” she asks becoming more perplexed by the second.

“What _about_ me?” he says exasperated.

“You’re not tired.”

“No, but that’s not the point.”

“Awfully boring for you.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock says before he realises how it sounds. She levels a glare at him even though he’s avoiding looking at her.

“Sherlock…am I an experiment?” He doesn’t say anything, and picks at a loose thread. _“Sherlock.”_

“I had thought about it,” he confesses. “Your nightmares are fascinating.”

She bristles, and a frisson of anger spikes through her. “You find my _nightmares fascinating?”_

“No, well yes, but no,” he says, and huffs a frustrated breath out of his nose. “What I mean is, dreaming in general is fascinating to me.”

“Can’t you just experiment on yourself, then?” Jane snaps. She considers the mechanisms of shoving him out of her bed without him taking all the covers with him.

“I can’t,” he says in a small voice. “I don’t dream. Haven’t for years.”

“Wait, what? Everybody dreams, Sherlock.”

“Not me. I used to, of course. When I was little I distinctly remember a recurring nightmare about crows swarming me. It was terrible,” he says and shudders theatrically for effect. Jane shimmies down to his level, and observes him. There’s something about the small hours of the night that brings the confession out of people. Even the Great Sherlock Holmes, apparently. Her anger dissolves as curiosity takes hold. 

“What changed?” she asks tucking a hand under her cheek.

Sherlock’s smirk fades. “The doctors said it had to do with my frequent cocaine abuse. I went in to ask about it when the [insomnia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1871248) was out of control after my last overdose,” he says clinically. Jane can barely see past that detached façade, but the torment is there hovering in the tense corners of his mouth, and she knows in that instant what this all must be costing Sherlock. She suddenly feels like an arse for being so difficult when he’s clearly trying to help in the only way he knows how.

“Your brain never shuts down, does it?” she asks quietly.

“Not fully, no.”

“God it must be exhausting.”

“Mm,” he hums noncommittally. “No more talking. Sleep.”

She chuckles under her breath a little, and turns on her side with her back to him. She yawns and settles in, feeling relaxed despite herself. After a moment she feels Sherlock shift, and then and arm tentatively comes across her waist and she can feel him hovering oh so lightly along the length of her back.

“Er, Sherlock?”

“Shush, Jane,” he says, his breath rifling her hair. He pauses and lifts his head up a little. “Unless…you want to describe in great detail what you were dreaming about? I’ve heard talking about such things helps.”

“Don’t ruin it, Holmes,” she says with a sleepy smile, and subconsciously presses back into the warm curve of his body. She feels the pleasant weight of sleep begin to pull her under. Just before she sinks, she says, “Thank you.”

* * *

Sherlock counts Jane’s even breaths in the darkness. (sixteen per minute normally, but when she’s asleep it’s between nine and twelve.) She’s not an experiment, no, but he can’t help cataloguing these things nonetheless. Like her heart rate that’s currently spiking as she’s pulled into yet another nightmare.

In the beginning, he kept his arm draped over her to maintain the required amount of contact so that her subconscious mind would register his presence even when she slept. But when he noticed an increase in her breathing and how her arms and legs started to move — half aborted motions and panicked recoils — he curled his fingers to the underside of her wrist and tracked as her pulse went from resting to suddenly alarmed as it fluttered under his finger tips. 

At first he was supremely annoyed that it didn’t seem to be working, and furiously went over his mental list trying to see what he was doing wrong when she suddenly keened, a small pained noise at the back of her throat. In that instant it didn’t matter at all what he was or wasn’t doing as long as he pulled her out of the mire of war and bloodshed. (The noise was unpleasant and did funny things to his own heart beat.)

He pulled her closer still, glad for the darkness and for the fact that in the ‘nowhere’ hours of the night they might have been the only two people on the planet, and brushed his lips against the shell of her ear.

“Jane,” he said in a low voice, and then stopped at a loss for what to say next. So he just repeated her name, and then again, and again until she settled once more.

Now as her heart rate climbs for the third time and her breaths become more ragged, Sherlock doesn’t give the nightmare any purchase as he curls around her and presses his knees into the backs of hers hoping the added contact will anchor her.

 _“No,”_ she says on an exhale, and Sherlock takes to brushing the hair back from her brow before he’s even conscious of doing it.

“Jane,” he murmurs. “It’s all right. You’re safe.” (Nonsensical soothing drabble that obviously makes no difference to her as she continues to be held hostage by whatever has her in its throes. It’s vastly irritating, and all at once he hates her nightmares with a vengeance.)

Her hands scramble out in front of her, frantically searching for something (most likely a weapon), and finding nothing she begins to hyperventilate.

In one swift motion, Sherlock turns her around to face him, and she immediately clings to the front of his pyjama shirt as if she were drowning. He tangles his legs with hers, and cages her in his arms as she continues to shake.

“Jane,” he says. He notices tears leaking out from under her lashes, and his heart does that funny little turn again. “I’m here, remember? This is supposed to be working. Don’t make me into a liar, you know how much I’ll hate that.”

She stills for a moment, her head tilting a fraction at the sound of his voice.

“That’s right. You can hear me somewhere in there, can’t you?” Sherlock murmurs again, thrilled that he seems to be getting through. He touches his forehead to hers, barely a whisper of skin, as if he could dissipate the images of gore and violence by lending her the blankness that pervades his own unconscious. (Osmosis? Ridiculous. But at the moment he could care less as long as it works.) 

Finally, she lets out a sigh of relief that is half sob, and burrows closer into his chest. It’s another couple of minutes before the tremors recede and she is breathing evenly again. Sherlock can feel her tears drying on his shirt. He grins triumphantly to no one in particular, and absently strokes her back.

He lets his mind drift, for once, inexplicably content.

And warm.

And…wait. 

Where was that… _humming_ coming from?

It was him. He — Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath — was humming that old French lullaby his mother used to sing to him and Mycroft whenever they were ill or upset. He thought he deleted it ages ago. (Obviously not.)

He blinked down at the top of Jane’s head and wondered how exactly he let himself get into this situation.

He was supposed to be distant, guarded, having decided a long time ago that this was surely the most efficient state of being. Anything else was distracting, and left him unable to make decisions of a scientific and unbiased nature.

So it was with great reluctance, that Sherlock disentangled himself from Jane, and made his way back downstairs to brood on the sofa.

It was hateful how blindsided he felt. Jane occupied an alarming amount of real estate in his Mind Palace and they had only been flatmates (friends? colleagues?) for a few months. But it felt so much longer than that, didn’t it? Isn’t that what people always say when they… ‘get on’ with people? _‘It’s like I’ve know you for years,’_ and that lark about _‘kindred spirits.’_ (Sentiment.) Things like that were sticky and sweet like honey; maudlin and nauseating. But it was more than that. Sherlock found himself getting too close once again. His eyes drift to the mantle where the skull sits next to the brass carriage clock.

He couldn’t risk…getting too close to someone again. (In the darkest corner of his heart of hearts he admits to himself that it nearly destroyed him last time.) Alone was the only thing that protected him. It was proven; it was fact. (And he was selfish and scared to which the latter he would only admit to himself.) 

There was nothing to be done about it. He concluded Jane needed to go.

He would be accommodating, of course. It would be possible (although unpleasant) to elicit Mycroft’s help in finding her new affordable lodgings. And she did say she had a job lined up. Yes. This is what needed to happen. It would be fine. (It was necessary.) (But did he want it?) (Irrelevant.) And she could still accompany him from time to time, couldn’t she? Yes.

No. That was a delusion. Somehow he knew he couldn’t keep himself unaffected by her [in any capacity.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1875083) He looks at the mantle again, this time at the mug of cheery blue and yellow flowers. He had to cut all ties with her; a clean break. He needed to force his mind back into the detached well-oiled state it had been in before he met her.

His mobile buzzes against the top of the coffee table, and Sherlock snatches it before falls right off. Abjectly he notes that it’s nearly three in the morning before he clicks open the new text message:

_You are better with her, you know. I wouldn’t make any hasty decisions especially not having slept on it first.  
M_

Sherlock sits bolt upright, and angrily gets up from the sofa. (Stupid, omniscient, arrogant, meddling _bastard._ ) He spins around the sitting room, his eyes darting over the detritus trying to recall if anything was out of place. He does a double take when his eyes reach the bookcase and land on a beaten copy of Orwell’s _1984_ distinctly out of place. He stomps across the floor and yanks it back to reveal a small camera attached to the underside of the shelf. He rips it out savagely and makes his way down the hall where he drops it into the toilet bowl.

_SOD OFF. And stop bugging the flat, you massive pile of excrement._  
SH  
And 1984? Really? Could you be more obvious?  
SH 

_I thought you might enjoy the irony of the reference.*  
M_

_Do it again and I will make that photo of you and the packet of custard creams PUBLIC. With my own additions, of course.  
SH_

_Do you honestly think your photoshop skills will catch on with the so called public? I hate to break it to you, Little Brother, but you’re not very popular even with your own website.  
M_

Sherlock grits his teeth at this. Then gets an idea.

_No, but Jane has a blog with a steady amount of traffic, and once I tell her how overbearing and insufferable you are being I’m sure she won’t mind publishing this sordid little love affair you have going on with your biscuits.  
SH_

_Don’t think I couldn’t find every one of those pictures and have them systemically taken down.  
M_

_Yes, but who knows what damage will have occurred in the meantime._  
SH  
It could cause an international scandal.  
SH 

_Has it ever occurred to you that we belong on the same side?  
M_

_Oddly enough…no._  
SH  
Now piss off, Mycroft.  
SH 

_Pleasant dreams, Brother Dear.  
M_

Sherlock just manages not to scream with frustration, but it was a near thing. He threw his phone into his armchair however, extremely dissatisfied with the pathetic thud it made against the cushions. For good measure he slammed the Union Jack pillow down on top of it and was inclined for half a second to sit on top of it as if he were suffocating the infuriating man himself. He didn’t, however. (But it was a near thing.)

Instead he pulls it back out and scrolls to the first message:

_You are better with her, you know…_

Yes. He did know that. He was more sharply honed with her around, it was true. He drew conclusions faster, made more deductions in one breath, hell, he even _ran_ faster with her at his side. But was that enough?

His eyes snap to his brown leather violin case.

(Feeling that way — illuminated, invincible — wasn’t a new thing.)

He walks over to where it was sitting and flicks the clasps open one by one. Towards the top of the case was a small compartment where the rosin for his bow was kept. Sherlock pulls open the small door and removes the rosin. His fingers trace the velvet lining until he finds the seam, and peels the fabric back. He shifts aside a piece of thin wood and reveals another hollow compartment where a little bag of glowing white powder is hidden inside. He pulls it out between two fingers and holds it up to the light. It had been a long time since he had thought about it. With this he wouldn’t need Jane. With this he could be all of those things and not get entangled with the affairs of… _caring._

He crushes it in his fist as his breath quickens in anticipation. It’s strictly Pavlovian, this, chasing the high. He can feel the crook of his arm throb at the memory.

He didn’t need Jane. He had everything he needed right here in the palm of his hand.

_‘What would she say?’_

The insidious thought pops unbidden into his head. 

_‘What would she say?’_ it insists.

(Irrelevant.)

_‘What would Jane say?’_

Like a splinter in his nail bed or a paper cut on his cuticle the question nags at him despite his efforts to block it out until he is forced to pay attention to it. He sits down on the sofa with the packet caged between his palms. 

It’s simple. As a doctor, Jane would say he’s throwing his life away. (Not like he really cared if he thought about it.)

The life that _she saved_ , his traitorous mind reminds him. (Bugger. Of all the times to have an attack of conscience.)

Did she really save him in the end, though? Nobody asked her to shoot the cabbie on his behalf. He had everything under control, no real danger at all. The gun he was using was a _cigarette lighter_ for chrissake. And he knew which pill was poisoned, of course he did. He thinks back to that night pulling everything from that conversation into sharp focus.

_‘Is it a bluff? A double bluff? A triple bluff?’  
(Sheen of sweat on upper lip.) (Hands shaking slightly — nervous? No. Excited.)_

That wasn’t right. Excited? Had Sherlock really been that obvious? It was almost as if it didn’t matter which pill he chose, so long as he chose one; so long as he played the game.

It didn’t matter which pill. It didn’t _matter._

_‘He told me he would sponsor me if I found a way to catch your eye. For every one I kill more money goes to my kids after I’m gone. It’s only too bad you caught on so quick and ended my fun before I even got started…’_

Oh. (OH!)

Stupid, _stupid._ Obvious.

The pills were both poisoned. Hope was planning on dying one way or another that night. He was planning on Sherlock’s death as well. Despite what he said, he was on borrowed time; he had no time for _chess,_ it was all for show. _That_ was his bluff.

_‘There’s only the respite of darkness in the end for people like us…’_

_A gunshot._  
The pill falls to the floor.  
Jane. Avenging Angel. DoctorSoldier, SoldierDoctor. 

_Voice frantic, ‘Are you all right?’_  
then later,  
‘You were going to take that damn pill, weren’t you?’ She didn’t believe him when he’d said no, because he was. He would have. And he would have died. 

Whether she knows it or not, (although Sherlock thinks she does) she did save him that night. And to do this — to throw it all away — well that would be a waste, wouldn’t it? He lets the reality of this crash over him.

He was alive because of her.

And yes. He was _better_ because of her.

He gets up and puts the small bag back where it belongs, and latches the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * For those who haven't read 1984 the reference is that 'Big Brother is Always Watching.' Lol very Mycroft.


	6. Musical Cabs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Sherlock run around London and try to figure out the symbols from the bank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically...I have no life. So here's another update! I tried to make this chapter as interesting as possible, and I hope it's not as dry as I think it is. The Blind Banker has a lot of short scenes in it that are hard to incorporate into this series, but I have managed to slog through due to the fabulous comments and kudos I've been receiving. I really can't thank you guys enough, and I hope you like this chapter. xxHoney
> 
> *Link to 'Afters' updated!

* * *

“Well, um,” Stephen clears his throat and looks up from her CV with a bashful smile. “You’re a bit overqualified.”

“That’s not bad is it?” Jane asks a little embarrassed. 

“No of course not. Just locum work though.”

“Oh that’s perfectly fine.”

He nods and squints through his glasses at the rest of her CV. “It’s says here you’re a soldier,” he says, a mixture of impressed and unsure.

“But a doctor first and foremost,” she supplies.

“It might be a bit mundane for you.”

Jane thinks back to the container of night crawlers she found next to the yoghurt that morning. “Er, a bit mundane is good sometimes. And I could always use the money,” she says worrying her bottom lip.

“Any other skills?”

“Um…played the clarinet in school?”

He laughs at this, a high bubbling tenor that’s really quite charming. “Well I will look forward to the occasional impromptu concert from time to time,” he takes off his glasses and smiles at her with dark blue eyes that sparkle. “Look, normally we do the whole ‘thank you for your time and we’ll be in touch within a couple of days’ thing, but I hope it’s not too forward of me to just skip all that and say welcome aboard? I mean like I said I’m gasping for some help around here, and no one else has enquired.”

“Ah and there’s that whole business about destiny,” Jane reminds a smile spreading across her face.

“Yes. It would be rather unwise for us to ignore the Fates That Be, wouldn’t you say?”

“Most unwise,” she says cheerfully.

“So you’ll take the job?”

“I’m all yours!” she says, and their eyes lock for a moment. A curious expression flits across Stephen’s face, and he blushes faintly.

“I sure hope so,” he says softly before clearing his throat. “So shall I show you around?”

Jane can feel her own cheeks pinkening as she fights a grin. “Yes. Sounds good.” She gets up and follows him back towards the lobby.

An incessant ringing greets them, and when they round the corner Jane groans when she sees the six foot menace in his arrogant scarf and expensive shoes.

“Sir? Can I help you?” Stephen asks, and Jane pushes past him and claps her hand over Sherlock’s gloved one before it can hit that infernal bell one more bloody time.

“No, you really can’t,” Jane says before Sherlock can open his mouth.

“Sorry, but do you know him?” Stephen asks, confused.

“Yes he’s my —” _BING!_ Sherlock hits the bell setting Jane’s teeth on edge.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says and extends his hand. “Rather pointless having a bell at the front desk when there are no front desk personnel in the vicinity, don’t you think?” he says popping the k at the end of the word like a dart.

“Well, er, Melinda’s off out to lunch,” Stephen says with an amused huff of laughter. He takes Sherlock’s hand. “I’m Dr. Sawyer.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock says and turns on his heel. “Come on Jane. He’s killed another one!” And just like that he bangs out of the small clinic in a swirl of dark ruddy coat. 

“Oh god,” Jane murmurs massaging her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “I am so sorry about that. He really is a twat, some — no all the time, actually.”

“No that’s fine,” Stephen says with a baffled expression on his face.

“I’ll talk to him about showing up at my work…that is, if you still want to hire me after all that?”

“Don’t be silly, the job’s yours,” Stephen says and shrugs. “How does tomorrow sound?”

“Good. Yes. Excellent,” she fumbles, still embarrassed. He gives her an encouraging smile.

“Looking forward to it.”

“Yes I —”

“JANE!” Sherlock bellows, poking his head back in.

“I’M COMING!” she yells equally loud. “I’m sorry. Again. Tomorrow. Eight o’clock right?”

“Yes, eight o’clock,” he chuckles, and she flies out of the door.

His Majesty is already waiting in his damn bloody chariot (cab) by the time she gets outside. She slams the door when she slides in beside him.

“Here, look at this,” he says and shows her his mobile. “Brian Lukis, 41, found shot dead in his flat at Earl’s Court. Doors locked, windows barred. Just like Van Coon.”

“‘The Intruder Who Can Walk Through Walls?’” she quotes. She’s curious despite her anger at him.

“I asked for a pen,” Sherlock says changing tack. “and —”

“You — what? When?”

“ — about an hour ago. Not the point, Jane. Keep up.”

“Didn’t notice I’d gone out then,” she grumbles. Sherlock doesn’t dignify an answer to this, and instead steamrolls over her.

“Inspector Dimmock called me and let me know the ballistics report came back, and I was right, as usual, the bullet from Van Coon didn’t match his gun. Then I stumbled across this little headline just after and met him down at Scotland Yard, and now he’s letting me look at the crime scene.”

“The crime scene?”

“Yes at Earl’s Court.”

“That’s where we’re going?”

_“Yes.”_

“And you couldn’t have waited until my interview was over?” she says crossing her arms over her chest.

“He’s only giving me a limited time, and besides, your interview _was_ over.”

“Yes well…” she says losing steam momentarily. “That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” he says arching an eyebrow. 

“The point is I work there now, and I have to maintain some professionalism. And you showing up and being a nuisance is not very professional.”

“Professional,” he scoffs. “He fancies you,” he says suddenly, his voice hard.

“No. He…no,” she says flushing.

“Yes. It’s obvious. Why else would he have hired you?” he says.

“Because!” she cries, outraged. “I am a damn good doctor, that’s why!”

“Please, I suppose he told you there was no one else applying for the job as well? That you were the _only one_ who’s enquired?” Sherlock says gesticulating grandly. “‘Oh please, _Janey._ You are exactly what this dingy little clinic needs. Tell me you’ll say yes?’” he mocks.

She snaps her mouth shut, and turns to look out the window.

“You’re a bastard, sometimes,” she says under her breath even though she knows he can hear. They spend the rest of the cab ride in frosty silence.

***

“Four floors up. _That’s_ why they think they’re safe!” Sherlock says peering out of Lukis’s window. “Put a chain across the door, bars over the window; they think they’re impregnable. They don’t reckon for a second there’s another way in.”

“What are you getting at?” Inspector Dimmock says. He picks his way through the detritus of the destroyed flat. Jane looks around at all the book strewn about, and toes one with the tip of her shoe. What were they looking for?

“You’re dealing with a killer that can climb,” Sherlock says spinning around. He makes his way out to the landing and looks up with a manic grin. “He clings to the walls like an insect.”

Sherlock grabs an old crate and dumps yet another group of books onto the already messy floor.

“Oi! What do you think you’re doing?” Dimmock says. He looks to Jane incredulously, and she merely shrugs.

“This is how he got in!” Sherlock says and pushes on the small skylight, before pounding on it with his fist to unstick it.

“What? Come on!”

“He climbed up the walls, ran across the roof, and dropped through the skylight.”

“Like Spiderman?” Dimmock says, his hands on his hips. Sherlock hops down.

“Spiderman? What’s a Spiderman?” Sherlock says and looks to Jane like he does with all things pop-culture.

“Comic book hero,” she supplies.

“Don’t be an infant,” Sherlock huffs. “It’s obviously the only explanation. That’s how he got into the bank, and Van Coon’s. He scaled the building and ran along the balcony.”

“Woah, hang on! Van Coon’s was six floors up!”

Sherlock ignores him already halfway down the stairs, the Inspector and Jane on his heels. “We have to find what connects these two men.”

“Sherlock?” Jane says and stops a third of the way down. She picks up a book that had been haplessly discarded on the stairs and smoothes the creased pages.

“What?” he says turning to face her impatiently.

“Look at this book,” she says.

“What about it?”

“Well…” she says her cheeks heating, confidence dashed. “It was dropped or something. The pages are crushed.”

“Yes? Is there a point?” he snaps.

“I just — look at the other books on the stairs. They’re stacked neatly against the wall whereas the rest of the place is trashed. I dunno. It just caught my eye.”

Sherlock looks as if he’s about to cast her off again, but then he freezes, his eyes flitting from the book to the flat behind her. He jogs up the stairs towards her and takes the book. He likewise smoothes the creases.

“He was in a hurry when he came home,” he murmurs and flips to the front page. “The library,” he says and points to the West Kensington Library crest. “Jane you’re magnificent.”

“Not so useless after all,” she huffs, jamming her hands into her jacket pockets. He looks at her with a frown and goes to say something before thinking better of it.

“Come on, we’re going to go find out what out friend Mr. Lukis was doing at the library the night he was killed,” he says, and then they are off again bouncing along in another cab.

***

Sherlock weaves his way in and out of the shelves in a frenzy, and Jane struggles to keep up. _Bloody long-legged git,_ she thinks as he abruptly turns down another row and stops smack in the middle causing her to run straight into him.

“Look,” he says pointing at an identical copy of the book in his hands. “The catalogue says there’s three copies of this book, and two are checked out. One from Lukis, and one on the shelf so the other one must be with Van Coon,” he says.

“Nope,” Jane says and pulls the third copy from the shelf above. “Just misplaced, it seems.”

Sherlock growls in frustration. “Look around there must be some clue,” he says, and pulls another book off the shelf and begins flipping through. 

Jane has no idea what a ‘clue’ might be, so she figures the best thing would be to cover more ground. She takes the other side of the aisle at random and yanks out a book with a blue binding.

“Sherlock,” she says, hardly believing her luck when she sees that tell-tale yellow paint. He’s right at her side in an instant, and he grabs a handful of books revealing more of the cryptic symbols. “That’s it, right? The same thing from the bank?”

“Yes,” he says taking out his phone to snap a picture. “The exact same. So the killer breaks in, leaves the message for Van Coon. He panics, returns to his flat, and it killed that night.”

“The killer spots Lukis at the library and paints it where he knows it will be seen, and just like Van Coon, he runs home…”

“Where he dies hours later, yes,” Sherlock finishes for her.

Jane looks at the picture on the screen of his phone. “Why do they die, Sherlock?”

“Only the cipher can tell us,” he says.

“What makes you so sure it’s a cipher?” she asks.

“The whole world’s run on codes and ciphers, Jane. From the million-pound security system at the bank, to that PIN machine you bullied the other day, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment.”

“Yes, all right but —”

“— but it’s all computer generated. This is ancient. Modern code-breaking methods won’t be able to crack it. I need to go to someone for advice.”

“What? Hang on…you? Advice?” she snorts.

“Yes on painting. You heard me. I won’t say it twice.”

“The Great Sherlock Holmes asking for advice. I should mark this date in my diary,” she says and can’t help but nudge him. He looks at her just then and frowns.

“You’re not useless,” he blurts. He closes his eyes and tries again. “What I mean is…you are far from obsolete in all that you do. And all you don’t do. You are necessary.”

She opens her mouth to say something snide, but she notices he’s being serious. And that he is extremely uncomfortable. Suddenly she realises that this is basically an apology, or as close to one as can be expected from Sherlock Holmes.

“I…thank you,” she says. He nods and shoves the books haphazardly back on the shelf.

“Shall we?” he says, his eyes bright.

* * *

“Good thing I have a job,” Jane says as she hands a few notes to the cabbie. Sherlock makes up the remainder by handing him (what he thinks is) twenty quid. “I might be worried about ending up broke from the musical cabs we’ve been playing today.”

“Oh stop your fretting. It’s extremely annoying,” Sherlock says and they start across Trafalgar Square at a brisk pace. (She’s biting her lip again, and he watches her cheeks turn pink from the chill.) He jogs up the stairs that lead to the National Gallery.

“So who do you know in here, then?” Jane says and makes for the doors.

“What? No one,” he says and has to double back and grab hold of her elbow. “We’re not going in there.”

“I thought you said you needed to talk to someone about art?” she says letting herself be steered around towards the back of the building.

“You can’t learn about art from a curator,” Sherlock says as they approach a young man currently in the process of tagging the steel access door. “Hello Raz.”

“What d’ya think? New exhibition. I call it ‘Urban Bloodlust Frenzy.’”

“Interesting, if not cliché,” Sherlock says with a bored air.

“I dunno. I think it’s quite catchy,” Jane says eyeing the representation of a constable with a pig snout.

“Finally! Some appreciation!” Raz says and tosses the can of paint to Jane where she catches it. “Hold that for me, will ya sweetheart?”

“Recognise the author?” Sherlock asks and shows him the pictures on his mobile, and he sidesteps the large canvas bag at his feet so he could get closer.

“Not say I do. Recognise the paint though. Michigan; hard core propellant; zinc. Popular brand. Not the best on textured surfaces.”

“What about the symbols?”

“I’m not entirely sure it’s a proper language,” he says gripping the phone with his grubby fingers so he could see it properly.

“Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who did it. Will you help us?”

“I can ask around, but that’s pretty much it,” he says.

“There has to be some one who could —”

“Oi! You there!” someone shouts, and Sherlock just manages to catch a glimpse of two Community Support Officers before he takes off running after Raz.

He feels the adrenaline crackle through his blood, and fights the urge to throw his head back and whoop with excitement. It’s been far too long since they’ve done this, and it’s like cocaine only a thousand times better. He follows Raz down an alley, and they both collapse against the brick wall with matching grins. It’s then he notices he’s forgetting something.

“Jane?” he says looking around, and Raz begins laughing. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“You knew about those officers, didn’t you, Raz?”

“That’s why it’s so funny,” he gasps. “Hopefully your girl has a sense of humour.”

“She’s not mine,” Sherlock says beginning to make his way back down the alley.

“Come on, mate. Who are you kidding?” Raz says. Sherlock closes his eyes at the memory of that Stephen person. (Cheeks flushed, pupils wide when he looked at Jane.) He grits his teeth.

“Just let me know when you’ve found anything,” Sherlock snaps.

* * *

A set of fingerprints, a charge sheet, and one summons to appear in Magistrate’s Court later, Jane finds herself storming out of the Custody building with Sherlock at her heels for once.

“You’re paying for this one,” Jane says when they get into the cab.

“Fine. Good,” Sherlock says distractedly staring at his mobile. “That took a while.”

“Well you know how it is,” she says with mock casualness. She counts to ten inside her head. “Custody Sergeant’s don’t like to be hurried.”

“Apparently not,” he says still not looking up. Her temper finally breaks.

“They’re giving me an ASBO!” she shouts, incensed. He looks up at this.

“An – an ASBO. Really?” he says clearing his throat. He tries to hide his grin but it’s too late.

“Are you… _laughing at me?”_ she asks.

“No, no of course not.” They sit in silence for a moment. Then: “I did warn you, though.”

“You what?!”

“First chip-and-PIN machines, and now this. You should be ashamed,” he says no longer trying to cover up his smirk.

“You – you – I can’t believe — you’re _bloody coming with me_ to court on Tuesday, Holmes, and explaining to them who’s paint that really is!” she rages.

“Oh, court. Dull,” he sighs though his chuckling.

“Dull? Is that all you have to say? Dull? Is that your favourite word, then?”

“Obvious.”

“Ah. Of course it is! Should have known.”

“No, Jane my favourite word is ‘obvious,’” he says.

“Oh. Really?” she says her fire dampening a little at this curious little tid-bit.

“Obviously,” he says with a cheeky grin, and tugs playfully at her fringe.

She glares daggers at him. “I know where you sleep at night.” She huffs and tries to turn her back on him as much as she can, and crosses her arms. She swears [revenge,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1884985) she really does. And she'll get it too.


	7. Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane is always there to pull Sherlock out of trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks. I am quite excited about this chapter. I hope you guys like it. :D

* * *

Jane giggles as she watches Sherlock covertly from her spot by a pillar. 

Apparently what ever he gleaned from Van Coon’s PA brought him to the same place as her after they split up. When she got there, she spotted him almost immediately — after all, who could miss a six foot madman twirling around talking to himself in the middle of China Town? She was about to go up to him and compare notes as it were, but decided to hang back and observe the great detective at work.

Sherlock spins another three sixty degrees with his hands on either side of his head, and almost whacks an unsuspecting woman pushing a pram with his elbow. She gives him a right nasty look, but he doesn’t notice, completely absorbed in what he’s doing. He brings a slip of paper up to eye level, and squints at it before cramming it back into his coat pocket in frustration. He begins walking again, but this time backwards, before stopping and walking forwards again in precise even strides. She laughs again and decides to break her cover and rein him in before he knocks over the crisp rack by the espresso station he’s dancing around.

She goes to put a hand on his shoulder when he abruptly turns around and runs smack into her.

“Jane!” he says, and she would have lost her balance had he not gripped her by the arms last second. She smiles and goes to show him Lukis’s diary she got from Dimmock before he cuts her off. “Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died. It was big necessitating a taxi here. But he dropped it off somewhere – somewhere close because he took the Tube back to his office —”

“Right. Sherlock —” she tries bringing the journalist’s diary up to show him the meeting he marked down with ‘The Lucky Cat Emporium.’

“— it’s whatever was hidden in that case. Fragile, tightly packed. I managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information —”

“Sherlock —”

“— credit card receipts, bills the like. He flew back from China, then came directly here.”

“Yes, all right, but —” Jane tries again. Sherlock scrubs a gloved hand through his hair, and his riotous curls stick up every which way.

“Somewhere in this street; somewhere _near,_ Jane, but I don’t know _where_ —” he says frantically.

Jane grabs the lapel of his coat and yanks him around so he’s facing her. “ _That_ shop, over there,” she says and points across the street.

“What? How – how can you tell?” he falters. Jane grabs his left hand and pushes up his sleeve. She begins to peel off one of the three nicotine patches stuck to his forearm.

“I’ve been trying to tell you that I got Lukis’s diary from Dimmock. He was here too; he wrote it down. You’d know if you’d let me get a word in, Patchy McWired,” she says only half annoyed, and peels off number two leaving him with just the one.

“‘Patchy McWired?’” he sneers, straightening his coat. He runs a hand through his hair again, and she can’t help but fix a particularly amusing cow-lick.

“Did you ever notice how there’s a lot of ‘Lucky Cats’ when it comes to the Chinese?” she says bemusedly and starts off in the direction of the shop.

* * *

Sherlock wrinkles his nose when they enter the chintzy souvenir shop as he is bombarded by the smell of cheap incense. Music is playing in the background apparently to lend an atmosphere of authenticity to the place. Which if anyone with half a brain was really listening, they would notice that the music actually features a shamisen (which is distinctly a Japanese instrument.)

“You want lucky cat?” the shop owner says. She holds out what Sherlock can only assume is an abomination of the tourist industry. (And besides it’s a garish shade of pink.)

“No,” Sherlock deadpans.

“Only ten pound! Your wife, she will like,” she says and slyly gestures to Jane from across the shop. He goes to open his mouth to correct the woman, but curiously, the reply sticks in his throat. He watches as she brushes her fingers over the leaves of a bamboo shoot, the sunlight streaming through the shop window highlighting the gold and streaks of copper in her hair. (It was down today from her interview, and it’s tousled gently around her face making her look soft and young.) “Ten pound!”

“No,” Sherlock says again, shaking himself out of his reverie. He looks away and busies himself by turning his attention to a collection of tea pots.

“Sherlock, look at this,” Jane says joining him. She shows him the bottom of a ceramic tea cup with a paper label, and his eyes grow wide. There, in red ink, is the symbol from the bank and the library.

“That label there,” she says.

“Yes I see it.”

“Exactly the same as the cipher at the bank.” She puts it back down.

“Come on, I have to check something,” he says and leads her outside.

“So what is it?” Jane asks jogging a little to keep up with his purposeful strides.

“It’s an ancient number system! Hangzhou, Why didn’t I recoginse it sooner?” he says and punches a fist into his hand. “These days only street traders use it. Here look,” he says and crosses over to a produce vendor. He picks up a leek and looks for a tag.

“This one here’s a fifteen!” Jane says pointing to the sign sitting in a bin of red cabbage. “Like the one at the shop.”

“Yes and the line is a number too.” He holds up the tag to emphasise his point. “The Chinese number one, Jane.” She beams at him and fixes his collar where one side had folded back down. He smiles back, the thrill of The Game crackling through his blood as yet another piece fall into place. He’s about to say something else when a woman with a camera catches his eye from across the street. He narrows his eyes and tries to get a good look at her, but a bus drives past just then and when it moves, the woman is gone. (Tourist maybe. Although…)

“I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody starved,” Jane says and sets off walking the way they came.

“But the case…” Sherlock protests. Jane doubles back and grabs his wrist.

“I spotted a restaurant right across from the ‘Lucky Cat.’ You can stake out the place, and deduce the door handles or whatever, while I grab a much needed bite.” He huffs petulantly, but follows her anyway. “I’ll even let you guess the fortune cookies.”

(As if that would tempt him.) (It does, but he won’t admit it.)

***

Sherlock doodles the symbols on a paper napkin while Jane tucks into her lo mein. (One, fifteen. Fifteen, one. 115? no…151…)

“What I don’t get is, what did they see?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, scribbling out the Fibonacci sequence he was working on out of boredom. 

“Two men back from China, head straight to the ‘Lucky Cat Emporium’. They must have witnessed something for them to be killed.”

“Hm, no. There was something Sebastian said to me when I went to meet him. He said Van Coon lost five million pounds in one transaction and single handedly made it back within the week. Think; how would he have stayed afloat in the market?”

Jane munches thoughtfully for a moment before the recognition comes across her face. “He was a smuggler!” she says. (Good girl.) Sherlock can’t help but be proud. Jane was always more intelligent than most.

“A guy like him it would have been perfect. Business man, frequent trips overseas to China. And of course Lukis as well, being a journalist and all. And what was he researching?” he leads.

“China. Of course,” Jane nods.

“They smuggled stuff out, and the ‘Lucky Cat’ was their drop off.”

“Yeah but why kill them?” she asks, and he frowns.

(They both turn up to deliver the goods why threaten them?) That was the question wasn’t it? Without thinking, he opens his mouth just as Jane brings her fork of noodles up to his lips. He munches on some pickled cabbage, his mind whirring.

“They were obviously killed after the event,” he says.

“Event?” Jane asks, and brings [another forkful](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1889178) up to Sherlock’s mouth.

“After,” he takes a bite, “they’d finished the job. That’s what doesn’t make sense,” he says chewing on a dumpling this time. He swallows. (Threatened and killed _without_ discretion. That was the key. It’s almost like the killer was casting a net of sorts.) A thought occurs to him. “What if one of them was light fingered?”

“You mean like pinching something from the hoard?” she brings her cup up and Sherlock pulls the straw between his teeth and absently takes a drink.

“Exactly! And the killer doesn’t know which one took it so…”

“…so he threatens them both, right,” Jane finishes. Sherlock sits back in his chair triumphantly. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” Jane asks.

“What? No. You know I don’t eat while I’m working,” he says waving a negligent hand. His eyes scan the surroundings outside the ‘Lucky Cat’.

“Oh I forgot. Silly me,” she says and chuckles under her breath.

“Jane,” Sherlock says suddenly, his eyes zooming in on a phonebook leaning against the front door of the flat above the little shop. He can just see (yes, condensation sparkling in the sunlight along the plastic wrapping) how it’s been sitting there for a couple of days, at least. “Remind me, when was the last time it rained?”

“Er…” she trails off, and Sherlock leaps to his feet already half way out the door.

***

“No one has been in this flat for three days,” Sherlock says ringing the buzzer labeled ‘Soo Lin Yao.’

“Could have gone on holiday,” Jane shrugs.

“No, look. The windows,” he says pointing up to said windows in question. A lace curtain was blowing in the mild breeze. “Do you leave your windows open when you leave for holiday?” He makes his way around to the side of the building and down a narrow alley where there should have been (ah yes) a fire escape. He looks up and sees another open window that leads directly into the flat. (Now…how to get up?)

“We could ask around; see if anyone’s seen her?” Jane suggests. 

“You do that,” Sherlock says and takes a running leap at the iron ladder. It swings down with a rusty groan, and before he can think too hard about it, he climbs up.

“Hey! I’m short remember?” Jane calls up to him.

“Go around to the front!” Sherlock shouts back over his shoulder as he ascends the fire escape. He catches her mumbled protests just as he ducks into the window. 

Just as he gets his shoulders through, his elbow knocks over a vase of flowers sitting on a small table. Deftly, he catches it before it hits the floor. (Good thing too. The vase is old, and would have shattered upon impact.) Sherlock notices a wet patch on the carpet where the vase had been upended previously. (By some one with excellent reflexes as well given the vase was still in tact.)

“I’m not the first!” he calls back.

“Can you not keep doing this?” Jane’s muffled reply sounds through the letterbox.

“Someone’s been here before me!” Sherlock shouts.

 _“What?”_ she says. He makes his way across the small kitchen, and opens the small washing machine. He pulls out a shirt and sniffs. (Damp, mildew in the centre; dry edges. She left one morning intending to come back to her neglected laundry, but she was apprehended.) He tosses the shirt back in the machine and opens the fridge. (Milk’s gone funny, about three days. Give or take.) Sherlock notices a wrinkle in the carpet from the impression of a shoe.

“Size eight feet,” he says pulling out his pocket magnifier. (Small, but definitely a man’s. Good reflexes. Quick; lithe. Can _climb_.) There’s a picture in a frame discarded on the floor, and he examines the finger prints left on the cracked glass. (Thrown in anger, possibly a struggle. Small strong hands.) “An _acrobat_.” He takes out his mobile and snaps a shot of the photograph. It was obviously sentimental (two children, one boy one girl, arms intertwined) and could prove useful. He straightens up, something still not making sense. “If he was here, why didn’t he close the window when he left?” he muses out loud.

(Oh.)

“Stupid. _Obvious._ He’s…still here,” Sherlock says freezing on the spot, eyes flicking around the flat. He thumbs out a text to Jane:

_[Unsent] — 2:38 PM_  
 _Vatican Cameos._  
 _SH_

his finger hovering over the send button just in case. He wanted to make sure if he truly wasn’t alone before he called the Calvary. After all, her bursting in needlessly was ridiculous, and she tended to do just that; guns blazing and everything. If the killer was still in here, it would be a waste to just shoot him.

He spots the cheap folding screen in the corner of the room, and makes his way over to it on cat feet. He yanks it aside to discover (too late he realises belatedly) nothing behind it. He just manages to berate himself mentally when the silk cloth wraps itself firmly around his throat from behind. His phone gets knocked from his grasp as he tries to lash out at his attacker, and skitters uselessly to the floor.

He falls backwards, and the garrote around his neck tightens even more as he is dragged across the room.

“Jane!” he wheezes out with his last breath, hoping it was loud enough to penetrate all the way through to the street. It was a mistake, seeing as how he’s used up most of his air.

Distantly, he’s aware of being lynched to the small radiator against the wall, and he tries to call out again, but the pressure is too much and the cloth constricts even further. He tries to see through his watery eyes as the assassin places something in his coat pocket. He starts to panic when he realises the angle to which he’s tied won’t allow for a different position, and half his weight is pulling to the ground concentrated on the vice around his throat. He claws uselessly at it with rapidly weakening fingers.

The last thing he thinks before he blacks out is how this is such a useless way to die. In the distance he hears the sound of breaking glass and then nothing…

***

“Breathe, you stupid idiot!” he hears through the muzziness in his head. (Voice thin and strained; watery, anxious, scared, Jane. Why are you scared Jane?) (Oh.) He feels the compressions on his chest, and is surprised his ribs aren’t broken yet. “Come on, Sherlock! _Breathe!”_ He wants to, oh god he wants to, but his lungs won’t work.

Something hot and moist and tasting of soy sauce covers his mouth, and air rushes into his chest, and finally, _finally_ he draws in a stuttering gasp. His eyes fly open, and he is met with Jane’s fierce gaze shimmering with unshed tears. Her hands cradle his head as she leans over him on her forearms. He watches, seemingly in slow motion, as a single tear tips over the edge of her blonde lashes and rolls down her cheek. He wants to brush it away, but before he can get a chance time speeds up again, and he coughs violently, turning his head to the side.

“Th-the milk’s gone off. And,” he coughs again, chest heaving, “the washing’s starting to smell. Someone left in a hu-hurry three days ago.” He goes to sit up, but Jane puts a hand on his chest.

“Wait. Just…” she trails off, her expression contorting into a grimace. She sucks in a harsh breath through her nose, and Sherlock can see the war playing out on her face; the war between here and _there._ She lowers her forehead to rest against the centre of his chest, right over his heart. He’s lays there, completely still as she breathes steadily in and out, in and out…in and out…

“Jane?” he whispers. His hand ghosts over her bowed head. He suddenly wants to card his fingers through her hair, but he quickly banishes the notion, not wanting to alarm her further.

“M’okay,” she says lifting her head and angrily swiping at her tears. She levers herself off of him and helps him sit against the small coffee table. She gets to her feet and paces a bit in order to work off the adrenaline.

“We have to find Soo Lin Yao,” Sherlock says, his voice coming out in a croak.

“Sherlock…” she warns, and glances at him, still pacing.

“Jane. Something might have happened to her. She’s involved somehow —”

“Something might have happened to you. Just now. Do you get that?” Jane says suddenly, rounding on him.

“Yes, something might have. Luckily you were there to stop it just in time,” Sherlock answers swiftly, getting to his feet. (This was ridiculous. Clearly he was fine. Dwelling on the numerous other scenarios that could have panned out was a waste of time which they didn’t have.) 

“Let me rephrase,” Jane says pressing her fingertips into her forehead. Her head snaps up, livid. “Something _did_ happen. You stopped breathing. For three minutes.” [(x)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1891737)

“Good thing you’re a doctor, then,” he says.

“You nearly died, Sherlock!” Jane yells at her breaking point. “How can you not realise the gravity of the situation?” He rolls his eyes and goes to walk past her so he can retrieve his phone from the ground when she stops him, a hand splayed on his chest. “This dropped out of your pocket,” she says and places a small black lotus in his palm. “This is getting serious, Sherlock. It isn’t just a message or a warning: they were trying to kill you. And they’ll probably try again.”

“Then the sooner we solve this the better,” Sherlock says seriously.

“Oh so now it’s back to ‘we’ is it?” she scoffs with something akin to betrayal. He steps around her and picks up his mobile.

“I didn’t forget about you, Jane,” he says and she snorts. He arches his eyebrow and pointedly hits the ‘send’ key. A moment later she receives his belated distress signal.

“Vatican Cameos,” she says, a small smile creeping onto her face. “So you were listening to me.”

“Always. I meant what I said about you being my partner, Jane.” He looks down at the paper flower in his hand. “And, erm, well…”

“Yes?” her smile is now a full on grin. (Sumg. Waiting for the ‘I told you so.’)

“Having you around is useful. Like I mentioned. Before. Earlier, I mean,” (what is this? _Articulate,_ man!) he clears his throat awkwardly.

“The term is ‘thank you Jane for saving my poncy arse yet again.’ And you’re welcome,” she says good-naturedly as they make their way out of the flat.

“How did you get in by the way?” Sherlock asks while unlocking the front door.

“Same way you did. Took me a little longer. I had to climb on top of a skip to reach the ladder. You owe me a new jumper by the way,” she says scrubbing at a large blackish stain on the hem.

“You knocked over the vase,” he says absently, pulling the door behind him. A piece of folder paper flutters to his feet in the resulting gust. He opens it.

_Soo Lin. Please give me a ring. Tell me you’re okay.  
Andy._

“We have to find Soo Lin,” he says. “She’s connected with all of this somehow.”

Jane takes the paper and reads it. “Yeah but how?”

“We’ll start with Andy,” he says and they make their way down the street.


	8. The Paint on the Tracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Sherlock try to uncover the code before Soo Lin's trail runs cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! It's been a few days. I've been a bit busy as of late (hey look life!) and so I'm sorry if you've gotten used to the whole daily updates thing. I am still chugging away every chance I get though. My goal is to finish this series up to Reichenbach before the new series comes out! Here's to hoping. Anyways you all are brilliant, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> *Link updated in 'Afters'!

* * *

“When was the last time you saw her?” Sherlock says, and practically looms over the poor kid with his patented ‘I’m-deducing-the- _holy-fire_ -out-of-you’ scowl. Which is highly unnecessary, because even Jane could tell that Andy was harmless, and quite possibly in love with the very girl they were searching for. She pulls the boorish detective out of Andy’s personal space so he could breathe, at least.

“We know you’re worried about Soo Lin, and we are going to do everything we can to find her,” Jane reassures. Andy returns her smile and the tension leaves his shoulders somewhat.

“I saw her about three days ago. Here, where she always is. Then this morning they told me she up and resigned.”

“And you found this strange?” Sherlock asks. His voice is still hard, but at least he’s taking Jane’s lead and keeping his distance. The bloody menace.

“She wouldn’t have left her work unfinished. She takes her job very seriously.”

“What was the last thing she did on her final afternoon?” he says.

“A tea ceremony, er, demonstration for the guests,” he says brushing a hand through his wiry brown hair. “I can show you her things if you would like?”

“That would be prudent,” Sherlock says, and they follow Andy through the museum.

“She would have packed her things in here,” he says opening a locked inventory vault. Sherlock goes over to peer over Andy’s shoulder, and Jane is about to follow him into the dark locker when a flash of bright yellow catches her eye.

“Sherlock!” she gasps, and he spins around inhaling sharply when he sees what she sees. They both walk up to the marble statue with the yellow paint splashed along the torso and across the eyes.

“What is it?” Andy asks warily. He shuffles on his feet behind them, and Jane looks at him with a grim expression.

“Something not good,” Sherlock says. “We have to find her.”

 _If she’s still alive,_ Jane thinks morosely as she follows Sherlock to the lift. Andy grabs her arm suddenly.

“You will find her, won’t you?” he says, concern etched into his face. His brown eyes are full of a hopeful kind of fear.

“There are a lot of things in this world I am unsure about, but that man there?” Jane says pointing to Sherlock’s retreating frame, “I have no doubt that he will find your friend.”

Andy looks at him, eyes shining before turning back to Jane. “Thank you,” he whispers. She nods, swallowing hard. In that moment she vowed that she would do her part to make sure that Soo Lin was unharmed, and hoped she could live up to the promise.

She’s quiet and grave as she enters the lift with Sherlock.

“Do you really have that much faith in me, Jane?” he asks quietly, breaking the silence. She isn’t surprised he somehow heard what she said. He always hears.

“I do,” she says refusing to be embarrassed, and turns to look at him. Something unnamed flashes across his face for a moment, and before she can figure out what it is he takes a step towards her. His presence envelopes her cutting off all other train of thought and the tension between them crackles like fire. He reaches out a hand to take hers, but thinks better of it and clenches it into a fist at his side.

 _“Why?”_ he asks instead peering intently down into her face; the incredulity in his voice is almost painful to hear.

“What do you mean why?” she whispers back not wanting to break the sudden energy suspended between them. A thrill of anticipation trickles down her spine as his proximity does strange things to her heart rate. “I’ve seen you and all you can do. It’s extraordinary. Truly amazing. And if I were to put my faith into anything it would be you.”

He frowns, inhaling sharply, and she wonders if this was maybe the wrong thing to say. But before she can say more the lift doors ding open, and the spell is broken. Sherlock steps away from her, and Jane suddenly feels cold at his absence. She can feel the heat staining her cheeks, and she looks down at the floor.

“You shouldn’t,” he says, biting off the end of the sentence. He jerks his coat collar up, and strides across the foyer of the Museum pulling out his mobile, and Jane sighs and trots behind him to keep up. “Come, on. Raz has something for us,” he says indicating a text on his phone as they burst out into the chilled night.

***

“Well if you want to hide a tree in the forest, this would certainly be the place to do it,” Sherlock remarks as they make their way through the under-croft of a concrete skate park. On every surface is a tangle of graffiti, signs and sigils overlapping in, what Jane assumes, is a multitude of different colours and not just the odd flicker of blue and yellow her eyes can detect.

They spot Raz on the far end of the skate park with his back to them, examining the wall plastered in old concert posters and adverts, his head thoughtfully tilted to the side.

“Michigan Yellow, right?” Raz says, glancing over his shoulder. He catches Jane’s eye, and winks. “How ya doin’ sweetheart?”

“Tuesday morning. Magistrate’s Court. All you have to do is show up and say the bag’s yours,” she snarls.

“Forget about your court date,” Sherlock dismisses and pulls out his mobile to snap a picture. “Jane look,” he says pointing to a half obscured line of dripping yellow paint. “They _have_ been here. It’s brilliant, really. Dozens of people idly passing by, this code would go unnoticed. If we are going to decipher this, we are going to need to look for more evidence.”

“Divide and conquer?” Jane suggests, and Sherlock nods.

“You take the underpass and circle around towards the railway, and I will cut through the parking structure and meet you on the other side,” he says tucking his mobile into his pocket with finesse. Jane pulls out her pocket torch and heads in the opposite direction.

The underpass smells of rubbish, and the squeal of breaks on metal makes her ears ring. The walls are completely covered in more adverts and posters, and yes, loads and loads of graffiti. The swirling shapes are almost enough to make her nauseous. For once she is glad for her limited sight; it makes the elimination process go by that much quicker when she can narrow it down to just the splashes of yellow. None of them are what she’s looking for, though, so she makes her way around to the dark railway.

She shines her torch along the ground and hope they find something quick. The frigid March air is starting to stir with a light breeze, and she can see her breath ghosting out from in front of her.

Just as she starts to think longingly of a nice cup of tea, she catches sight of bright yellow spattered on one of the sleepers, and along the rails. She follows the trail, excitement running though her and making her forget all about the cold.

Her boots crunch along the gravel, and she breaks out in a jog until the spots of paint lead her to a brick wall. She gasps, her mouth hanging open as she sweeps her torch over the Hangzhou numerals encrypted over ever inch. With slightly numb fingers she fumbles with her phone, and mashes her thumb into Sherlock’s speed dial. She huffs an annoyed breath out of her mouth when it goes straight to the answer phone. 

“Tit,” she mutters under her breath, and begins off in the opposite direction hoping to meet up with him somewhere in the middle. Before she gets too far, however, a thought occurs to her and she snaps a few pictures of the wall, and tucks her phone safely back into the pocket of her jacket. Satisfied, she follows the tracks in search of Sherlock.

She’s out of breath and a little more than annoyed when she finally finds him scrutinising the side of a box car, an empty can of paint in his hand.

“I’ve been calling you!” she says and jogs up to him. “I’ve found it.”

Sherlock drops the paint, and takes off right behind her, and they run all they way back to the brick wall.

“No! No, no, no,” Jane groans when it’s apparent that there is nothing to see on the wall except for black paint that has been hastily dumped over the evidence. She touches it with her finger and it comes away wet. “I just saw it. Ten minutes ago, a whole load of graffiti! I don’t understand.” Her hand falls listlessly back to her side.

Sherlock comes closer, his brow fretted, and he looks around. “Someone doesn’t want me to see this.”

Jane turns to him at the end of her patience with a sarcastic ‘obviously’ at the ready, when he suddenly grabs her face between his hands.

“Sherlock! What are you —?”

“Jane! Close your eyes!” he says frantically.

“What? Why? Why?”

“You need to maximise your visual memory,” he says and he slowly begins spinning them in a circle. His hands migrate down to her upper arms as he begins to turn a little faster. “I need you to try and picture what you saw, can you see it?”

“Yeah…” she says completely confused.

“Can you remember it?”

“Yes. Don’t worry because —”

“All of it, Jane? The entire pattern down to the last iota?”

 _“Yes,”_ she says tersely. She’s starting to get dizzy, and her ankles keep turning as she tries to keep up with Sherlock’s manic spinning.

“Really?” Sherlock says sceptically, his condescending eyebrows inching towards his hairline. “Because the average human memory on visual matters is only about sixty-two percent accurate —”

“Yes well I remember all of it you great pillock now if you would just —” Jane tries to manoeuvre out of the madman’s grasp, and in the process, her foot catches the side of Sherlock’s ankle and she stumbles. She tries to correct her balance, but the gravel is slick from the rain, and her feet scrabble for purchase. She falls backwards, and Sherlock tries to stop it, but now he’s falling too, his legs tangling hopelessly with Jane’s.

Ironically, she thinks that the sky is lovely on this remarkably clear night as she arcs back seemingly in slow motion just before she lands hard, all six-foot-bloody-something of consulting detective on top of her, her head connecting painfully with the metal rail of the track. She screws her eyes shut and groans piteously, the breath whooshing out of her.

“…Jane? Can you hear me?” Sherlock’s voice pierces through the shrill whine in her ears. It sounds all tunnel-y. She tries to say something, but the spark of pain cuts her short when she inhales. “Okay don’t move,” he says, tone taut. And is he…worried? She tries to tell him not to. She’s perfectly fine, she’s a doctor, and she’s been in worse shape, but when she opens her eyes the only thing she can manage to say is:

_“Oh.”_

The stars shine brightly behind Sherlock like diamonds, and his blue eyes sparkle like aquamarine in the darkness. Even his pale skin seems to give off some sort of luminescence. Unable to help herself she reaches up and cups his face with her palm and marvels at the fact that his high cheekbones, which by all means should have been chiseled directly from marble, were warm under her frozen fingers. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut as her thumb caresses his smooth skin. Then she notices the dark ring of bruising around the long column of his neck, and her breath hitches. She lowers her hand to trace the marks lightly, her heart cramping as she remembered how he got them…how he looked when she thought…

Sherlock swallows a few times before speaking. “I think you might have a concussion.” His voice reminds her of the colour of violet, and the way that his lips form the words as they push the coriander-scented air through his teeth has her thinking that he may be right. Everything was dialed up to a surreal degree, and the more she thought about it, her head was really starting to hurt. She blinks through the sudden torrent of stinging tears.

“O-okay,” she says shakily. “Do you have your torch?”

He nods and brings his pen torch out from his pocket. “What do I do?”

“Check, um, check my pupilary response,” she says swallowing thickly. Everything that was once sharp and bright was starting to blur slightly. “My pupils should contract and dilate evenly. An uneven response means I should go to A&E,” she says, and fights a sudden ripple of hysteria. She doesn’t manage to stifle the watery laugh that scrapes up her throat, though. _What a brilliant way to end the day,_ she thinks wryly as Sherlock shines the light into her face. Another spike of pain jabs behind her eyes, but she forces them to remain open.

“Normal,” he says, and she breathes out in relief as he clicks off the light.

“Hey, so about that accuracy thing…I think mine might have gone down significantly,” she tries to joke, but she hisses in pain when she attempts to laugh.

“It was a long shot anyway,” Sherlock says, and gently tucks his hand under her head to cradle the base of her skull. It’s surprisingly comfortable compared to the cold metal. Vaguely she realises he’s still on top of her, and that she doesn’t mind at all in the slightest seeing as how he’s keeping her quite warm.

“Well lucky for you I’m a pragmatist,” she murmurs, lowering her voice. He frowns slightly, and she slips her mobile out of her pocket. “Camera phones. Thing of brilliance.” She shows him the picture she took of the wall before it was painted over, and his smile is near blinding.

“ _You,_ Jane Watson, are brilliant,” he corrects, and she smiles smugly. “Do you think you can get up?”

“Mm,” she hums, and he pushes himself up. She rises gingerly to a sitting position, swaying as the world tilts around her. She gets to her feet and her knees immediately buckle, but before she falls again, strong arms wrap around her and she leans heavily against Sherlock’s tall frame. “What bloody bad luck. I better not even get out of bed tomorrow,” she remarks, trying for levity even though she was well and truly shattered at this point.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything as they make their way slowly towards the street to hail a taxi. Jane slides in and slumps wearily against the seat, wincing as Sherlock slams the cab door, the noise jarring her poor head. He looks at her with a question in his eyes, and before he can even ask she pulls out her mobile and hands it to him, knowing that he’s probably dying to dissect the gibberish on the wall. He takes it eagerly, and she smiles tilting her head back and closing her eyes briefly.

She’s exhausted, yet unable to find a comfortable position in the cab, and belatedly she realises she’s shivering from the sudden rupture of cold that manages to dig itself into flesh even through her jacket. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest and hunches over, her breath huffing out of her.

“Stop fidgeting,” Sherlock says, eyes still glued to the small screen. He absently reaches around and tugs her into his side, his hand rubbing up her arm and then back down in attempt to warm her. “It’s annoying,” he huffs, but adjusts them so her head is comfortably resting on his shoulder. It helps immensely, her limbs relaxing all at once, and she wraps her arm around the back of his waist so she is curled around him, soaking him up.

“Berk,” she mumbles through a yawn.

“Bint,” he replies, and then she is sinking into his solid warmth.

* * *

“Always in pairs, Jane. The numbers come with partners,” Sherlock says a little while later. “But why did he paint it so close to the tracks? Thousands of people pass by there every day…” He glares at the screen again, willing it to reveal the answers. (Close to the tracks; where anyone can see, but encoded so it’s likely to be ignored; communication maybe?) “Oh, of course. He’s trying to communicate with his people still. He wants back what ever it was that was stolen, and this is his way of getting a message to his contacts in the underworld,” he finishes triumphantly. “Jane?” He his met with only silence, however, as Jane simply snuggles into his side even more.

Sherlock looks down and frowns at the fact that she is clearly asleep, the crown of her head pressed into the side of his neck, and her warm even breaths unfurling against his skin. He foregoes the pattern of paint for a moment, opting to study the woman next to him instead. From his angle he is able to make out her brow furrowed with stress even as she sleeps.

She inhales a small quaking breath, her eyes flickering under the lids for a moment before she stills again. He quickly dials Mrs. Hudson’s number.

***

When they finally make it back to Baker Street, Jane is too out of it to even realise. Expecting this, Sherlock pays the cabbie then gently lifts her from the taxi, one arm under her legs, and the other around her back anchoring her close to his chest.

Mrs. Hudson is already waiting with the door open when he walks up to the flat.

“Oh Sherlock!” she says, and he angles them sideways so they can fit through the door making sure not to knock Jane’s feet against the frame. “What’s the poor dear done?”

“She hit her head. Nothing to be overly concerned with, she told me herself,” Sherlock says and makes his way slowly up the stairs.

“I suppose she told you she didn’t need to go to hospital,” Mrs. Hudson tuts.

“Yes she did. I checked her pupils for impairment myself,” he says.

Mrs. Hudson makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat from behind him. “And you listened to her. Don’t you know doctors make the worst patients, Sherlock Holmes? No, no you can’t bring her to her room,” she says stopping him as he turns to mount the second flight of stairs to the attic.

“Why?” he asks.

“You need to keep an eye on her, and we don’t want her trying to manage stairs with a head injury,” she says sagely patting his cheek. Sherlock suddenly feels uncertain and a little worried, but he’s comforted at the fact that Mrs. Hudson seems to know what she’s talking about, so without question he follows her back to his room where she’s already pulling back the duvet. He lays her gently on the bed, and Mrs. Hudson begins to unlace her shoes, slipping them off her feet. “Help me sit her up, dear.”

He eases her into a sitting position, using his chest and shoulder as a back rest, and she begins to stir.

“That’s right, love. Can you open your eyes for me?” Mrs. Hudson says cupping her face.

“Mrs. Hudson?” she says groggily.

“Follow my finger, Jane dear,” she says. Jane scoffs and tries to tell her she’s fine, but Mrs. Hudson’s no nonsense look cuts her off. It almost makes Sherlock chuckle, but when he feels her begin to shiver he sobers. (What if it was worse than she let on?)

Mrs. Hudson holds out her hands. “Give us a squeeze,” she says and Jane obliges even though she huffs out through her nose. She grips them evenly, flexing her fingers three times before Mrs. Hudson is satisfied.

“I’m all right, truly. Just a little knock, nothing [a bit of a kip](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1915550) won’t fix,” she says. Mrs. Hudson isn’t convinced, however, and she tuts again making her way to the kitchen. “Will you tell her not to fret?” Jane asks as she settles back against him. She sighs, and Sherlock’s arm wraps more securely around her.

“She’s Mrs. Hudson. It’s her job to fret,” he says.

“I suppose…” she mumbles, and Sherlock can feel her relaxing against him again.

Mrs. Hudson comes in a moment later with a bowl of water and a flannel clutched in her hand. She sets it on the bedside table, and puts her hands on her hips with a sigh. “Oh the poor thing. I almost hate to wake her again,” she says and runs her fingers through the hair at Jane’s brow. 

Jane sighs contentedly, and a curiously buoyant feeling swells in Sherlock’s chest. He realises he likes her like this; pliant and soft, and…protected. 

_I’ll protect you, Jane,_ the part of himself he usually keeps locked away whispers.

The thought comes unbidden and fierce, and makes his breath sieze in his throat. It occurs to him how easy it is to promise such a thing, and not for the first time he wonders how this came to be; how his guard is utterly obliterated around Jane. (How he came to want…)

_“Why do you have two chairs?”_

Mycroft’s voice rings out, as smug and as pointed as ever even in his memory.

_“What?”_

_“Two chairs, Sherlock,” he nods in their direction. “Why did you buy an extra one?”_

_“I —”_

_“I’m not going to pretend to know what goes on in your head, but I have known you the longest. Could it be your subconscious is trying to tell you something?”_

“It’s surprising that our Jane has only been with us such a short time, and she’s already made her way soundly into both our hearts,” Mrs. Hudson says interrupting his thoughts, and when Sherlock turns to her she’s gazing at him knowingly. He blinks, taken aback. (Was he really so transparent?)

“Please, Mrs. Hudson,” he mock-scoffs trying to regain his footing. He feels stripped and naked all of a sudden. “it’s much too late for this abundance of sentiment.”

“Oh pish,” she says batting a hand at the air. “You may have the wool pulled over everybody else’s eyes, but you don’t fool me for one _second,_ Sherlock Holmes.”

“I…” he trails off at her thunderous expression.

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” Mrs. Hudson says firmly shaking a finger at him. “And you better watch how you treat her. She’s not like you; she can’t keep up with you if you insist on running her ragged. But she’s too stubborn to admit it, and so it’s no surprise when something like this happens. What did happen anyway?”

“We, er, tripped. On a set of train tracks,” he says, the heat rising to his cheeks. He feels properly scolded, and for once he has no clever retort at the ready. She clicks her teeth, and he feels his face flush even more. “She saved my life again today,” he blurts. He doesn’t know why he says it, but it’s suddenly important that he does. 

(He remembers the fear in her eyes as she gazed down at him, her fingers clutching the front of his coat as if he might disappear. The way she smiled up at him after he fell on top of her. Her cold hand against his face, and her light fingers as she traced the bruises around his throat. Even then she was still worried about him.)

He looks down at Jane; down at the freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the fan of her blonde lashes, and how her chest rises and falls as she breathes against him. Yes. He had wanted someone for a long time, he just didn’t realise.

Sherlock feels fingers under his chin tugging him to look up at his benevolent landlady. “Well I am very glad you’re okay,” she says and pecks him on the cheek. Her expression is one of motherly concern and forgiveness, and she smiles before turning her attention back to Jane.

“Wake up, sweetheart,” she says, and gets Jane to sit forward once again.

“Oh, Mrs. H! I’m sorry about the piano, I’ll wash it in the morning,” she says nonsensically, apparently having just been dragged out of a dream.

“Oh love,” Mrs. Hudson says with a sympathetic chuckle. “don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it, but just this once, mind. I’m not your housekeeper,” she smiles, and brushes the hair off the back of Jane’s neck. Sherlock is horrified at the streak of blood visible at her nape.

“Are you sure she doesn’t need a doctor?” he asks. Jane grumbles her distinct disapproval at this. She may be exhausted and a bit confused, but she recognises as much.

“She’ll be okay after a good night’s rest,” Mrs. Hudson says, and begins to inspect the good sized lump at the back of her head. There’s a bit more blood peeking through her hair, but it’s not a lot, and she cleans it up with a few gentle swipes of the damp flannel.

“How do you know all of this, by the way?” Sherlock asks as he watches her careful ministrations.

“I used to be a nurse, dear. Didn’t you know?”

“I had no idea,” he says, surprised and a little annoyed he didn’t deduce it sooner. (In hindsight it makes perfect sense.) 

She pops a few tablets of paracetamol out of a blister pack and hands them to a cooperative Jane. She smiles drowsily and swallows them dry. “Ooh nasty headache,” she remarks.

“Sound diagnosis, Doctor,” Sherlock teases softly, and helps her out of her jacket before she lies down.

“Shut up,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. He smoothes the blankets over her, and before he straightens up again, her hand finds its way to his. She frowns, her eyes still shut. “Will you stay?”

He looks up startled and finds Mrs. Hudson smiling behind the back of her hand.

“If you need anything else, you know where to find me,” she whispers and winks before she leaves.

Sherlock nods to no one in particular, and when he looks down, Jane’s eyes are on him again glazed with foggy pain and…something else. The grip on his hand squeezes once, twice, and suddenly he understands. He toes off his shoes and shimmies in behind her like he did the other night.

“Simply an autonomic response,” he says. “Your subconscious will register my presence and you’ll be able to sleep uninterrupted.”

“Yes, of course. My thoughts exactly,” she says the tense uncertainty leaving her as she relaxes into the curve of him. Before she drops off she breathes a soft “Thank you.”

Sherlock smiles, and holds her.

She sleeps soundly through the night under his vigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated!


	9. Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Sherlock break into the museum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a bit, folks. In the middle of helping stage manage a play so I have been a little busy, and exhausted to boot. Last weekend though, so huzzah! Thanks to all of you who are reading this, and I was super thrilled to find that some of you requested little drabbles for my 'Afters' collection! I will get to them as soon as I can as well as trying to finish up this installment along the way. Any hoo, enjoy!
> 
> *Links updated!

* * *

Jane wakes up with the dewy early morning sunlight gently warming her face. She sighs, and burrows further into the blankets, luxuriating in the lazy feeling of having a lie in. The sheets are especially soft, and she seeks out the cool end of the pillow. Then it dawns on her that something is a bit off. For one, she’s still in her clothes, and for two, she was never woken by the sun seeing as how the window in her room faces due north. So if that was the case…where the hell was she?

She cautiously opens her eyes and is greeted with an unfamiliar ceiling and her ridiculous flatmate sprawled out inelegantly on his front next to her, sound asleep. Sherlock’s room. She was in Sherlock’s room.

Well.

Jane takes a moment to contemplate how she ended up in Sherlock’s bed. She remembers being ferried all over London and piecing together clues that led them to China town, and then to the railway, and then…things got a little muzzy after that. She shifts, and the dull ache at the back of her head reminds her of the train tracks and the brightness of stars and the way Sherlock peered down at her. How his eyes looked impossible, rendering the exact likeness of ice, yet burning with so much fire. Did they always look like that? Suddenly she wants to know.

She gently turns on her side to look at Sherlock. He is facing her, his curls wildly splayed against the whiteness of his pillow. It suddenly occurs to her that she’s never actually seen him _sleep,_ sleep before. Little naps yes, and occasionally he would lie on the sofa and retreat to his Mind Palace with his eyes closed and not move for hours, almost to the point of turning to stone, however he was always conscious. (She tested this by making tea, to which he always roused himself to drink.) Whenever he did actually sleep, he would drag himself back to his room and hole himself up for much needed rest, and she wouldn’t see him again until he emerged usually about twelve hours later during such instances.

Now as he snores lightly beside her, his hands pinned underneath his chest and his mouth slightly open, a bit of drool on his chin, she thinks it’s the most _human_ she’s ever seen him. 

It’s absolutely novel. 

She tucks her hand under her cheek and watches him with a suppressed grin. She almost wishes she had her phone handy so she could capture the evidence and rub it in later, but that would mean moving which she was much too comfortable to do, and there was also the fact that she wasn’t exactly sure she even knew where her phone was at the moment. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted enter into a blackmailing feud with a super genius detective, because he would definitely be able to deduce far more embarrassing things about her, she was certain. The fact that she had no memory of ascending the stairs was a testament to that, and she knew that if he were to ever refer to _carrying_ her, she would probably die of mortification.

Sherlock snuffles and smacks his lips in his sleep, and it takes all of her willpower not to giggle. She’s pretty sure this is the first time she’s been in such a good mood while being mildly concussed.

She begins to feel drowsy again, and despite the fact that she should really get up and go to her own room, she drifts off.

***

She wakes up sometime later to the sounds of a [violin,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1935658) the sunlight that had been streaming through Sherlock’s window replaced by thick, gauzy cloud cover. Her head is starting to ache persistently now, so with much effort she hauls herself up to sit on the side of Sherlock’s bed intent on tracking down some pain meds. It turns out she needn’t bother; a set of paracetamol and a glass of water were already waiting for her on the bedside table.

She must have hit her head harder than she though given how considerate her flatmate was currently being. Perhaps this was an alternate reality, she muses with a smirk.

She takes the pills, and puts the glass back down glancing at the digital alarm clock in the process.

And nearly has a heart attack when she sees that it’s almost nine-thirty.

She flings herself up from the bed and tries to run out of the bedroom in search of her mobile phone. Today was her first day at the Clinic and she was already an hour and a half late. She gets halfway down the hall before her vision doubles slightly and she gets knocked off kilter by the absurd dizziness that suddenly overwhelms her. She crashes into the wall with a bang and slides down to the floor almost comically. _Great._

The violin stops playing, and Jane looks up as Sherlock regards her with his arms crossed as he leans against the wall. He arches an eyebrow with a smirk.

“Morning,” he drawls.

“Where’s my _phone?”_ she says trying to sound imperious from her position on the floor. She wants to stand up, but the world hasn’t stopped spinning just yet.

“I assume you want to call your new boss and tell him you’re egregiously late for your first day.” He unbuttons his cuffs and begins rolling up a sleeve of his dress shirt. “You needn’t bother I talked to Sampson earlier.” He sets to work on the other sleeve.

“What? You talked to Stephen? Why?” she asks thoroughly confused now. “Why didn’t you get me when he called?” she staggers to her feet leaning on the wall heavily.

“You were sleeping. And besides, I was the one who called him,” he says. She blinks. Once, twice.

 _“Why?”_ He arches his eyebrow again, and before she can properly glare at him, he swoops down and picks her up bridal style. She squawks in indignation, and tries to squirm out of his grasp. “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“Shut up this is faster and a lot less painful than watching you bumble about,” he says and looks down at her. “Now stop moving or I’ll drop you on your head again.”

She huffs and crosses her arms, and he smirks. “Why did you call my boss?” she asks again as [he carries her](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1947779) through the kitchen and over to the sofa to where he deposits her on it. He sits down next to her and she smacks him with the Union Jack pillow.

“Mrs. Hudson’s idea. I called and told him you have a head injury and are unable to come in for work today,” he says simply.

“Jesus it’s hardly a _head injury_ ,” she mutters.

“You’re concussed.”

“Barely,” Jane retorts.

“And I need you at the top of your game for tonight.”

“Wait, tonight? What’s tonight?” Jane asks her irritation fizzling out almost instantly, replaced by curiosity.

Sherlock smiles, a gleam in his eye. “Tonight we are going to find Soo Lin.”

Jane purses her lips. She knows a carrot when she sees one, and she rolls her eyes. “Go on then, Mr. Suspense, where do you think she is?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Jane?” he says lighting up. “She’s been hiding in the Museum this whole time. Andy said himself that she wouldn’t have abandoned her work the way she did.”

“Her work?” Jane says adjusting herself more comfortably in the cushions. Somehow, the idea that she was currently skipping her new job didn’t bother her like she thought it should. She chalked it up to the dull ache in her head and not the enticing anticipation beginning to thrum through her veins.

“Yes. The tea ceremony!” he says impatiently. He pulls Jane’s laptop to him from the desk and clicks open the browser where a series of tabs were open. He shows her an image of a small clay tea pot. “These pots are centuries old, and they need care or else they will dry out and crack. Soo Lin loved these pots, she wouldn’t let them fall into negligent hands. Not only that, but she is currently being hunted by an acrobatic assassin so where else is she supposed to go?”

“I find it ironic that her endangerment is your follow up point,” Jane says wryly. Sherlock grunts noncommittally, and shuts her laptop with a click. He gets up and looks at the pictures of the graffiti taped to the mirror over the mantle.

“Mrs. Hudson says it’s important that you rest up. I’ve hidden the tea because she says it’s not good for you because of the caffeine, and that your body will be requiring more rest to recover. You should lie down again, and later when you’re hungry there is Mrs. Hudson’s homemade Shepheard’s Pie in the fridge. Don’t worry, I’ve kept it an entire shelf away from the liver,” Sherlock says all without turning around.

“Oh well good thing for us we have Mrs. Hudson,” she snipes. “It’s not like one of us is a competent doctor or anything.”

“She used to be a nurse, and it _is_ a good thing,” Sherlock agrees completely missing the point. “She said doctors make the worst patients, apparently, and I am inclined to concur,” he levels a glance at her through the mirror. Okay maybe he wasn’t missing the point after all. She grumbles, and gets to her feet.

“Yeah, yeah.” She makes her way to her room.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock drawls with sigh as if she were conceding his point.

“I need to get a change of clothes from my room so I can take a shower,” she says, equal parts irritated, and yes, still exhausted.

“Oh. Good. You smell like the Underground,” Sherlock says flipping absently through a book on cuneiform and other dead languages.

“Ta,” she says sardonically, and makes her way up the stairs. Bloody prat.

***

Jane touches the place at the small of her back where the familiar weight of her hand gun should be for the umpteenth time. She felt exposed without it, and even though the adrenaline and excitement was pumping through her veins, she couldn’t deny the existence of another, very familiar sensation prickling the back of her neck. It was instinct, and for some reason she felt more on edge. It was the same unshakable feeling she had when she watched Sherlock disappear into Soo Lin’s flat: the feeling of wrongness. 

Sherlock suddenly shifts in the small cupboard they were hiding in, and nearly whacks her in the face with his elbow.

“Sit still,” she hisses, and can almost _feel_ him rolling his eyes. He huffs from behind her, and leans more heavily against her out of spite.

“We all can’t be five feet and come in travel size,” he remarks.

“Hey. Five-foot-four, you great sasquatch,” she says raising her chin.

“Be quiet!” Sherlock whispers, shoving her a bit.

“Then stop talking to me,” she whispers back, pushing him with her shoulder. He nudges her one last time for good measure, and she grits her teeth. 

Trying not to sigh too loudly, she squints down at her watch in the dimness. They had been there for forty-five minutes, and she was beginning to get irritated. She knew that this floor of the museum had been vacant for quite some time, but Sherlock wanted to wait to be sure the whole place was emptied. She sighs and shows him her watch. He hooks his chin over her shoulder to get a better look. 

“Okay,” he breathes, and they both struggle unceremoniously out of the crammed cupboard. Jane fixes her hair by pulling it more securely back into a pony tail, while Sherlock pulls a map of the museum out of his coat pocket. “We need to find the restoration room. She’s bound to be there, only one of those pots was shining yesterday, and there are three more that are in need of care.”

“All right, let’s go,” she says, and follows him through the glass cases of ancient Egyptian relics and displays of skulls hanging from the walls.

They make their way down the grand staircase and through a corridor tucked off to the side clearly marked for employees only. Sherlock stops in front of the textured glass door with the word ‘Restoration’ on the front and peers inside. He turns back to her after a moment and gives her his best smug smile and pushes the door open soundlessly. 

Jane hangs back a little so she can check out the place. The Restoration Room is large and dark and full of shadowy crevices to hide behind — perfect for an assassin. She peers behind a large crate, and kicks herself again for not bringing her gun.

Just then she hears a startled gasp, and the brief clatter of ceramic.

“Centuries old. Don’t want to break that,” Sherlock’s cheeky baritone rumbles in the dark. Suddenly the fluorescent lights snap on illuminating the work tables and nothing else, adding to the formidable eerie feeling. She rolls her eyes; he sure did love the dramatic. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says setting the small tea pot back on the table. Jane comes up to stand next to him. “And this is Doctor Jane Watson. We have been looking for you.”

Soo Lin’s eyes grow wide, fear sparkling in their almond depths.

“What he means is, we want to help you,” Jane recovers. Soo Lin regards her warily.

“Help me?”

“We know someone is after you, and we want to stop them. Your friend, Andy, he’s worried about you,” she says. Soo Lin’s eyes widen again but this time in recognition.

“You talked to Andy?” she asks. 

“We did,” Jane says before Sherlock can butt in with an impatient reply. “He seems like he cares a great deal about you.”

She smiles wistfully a little before her head snaps up, back on the defensive. “Why would you want to help me? If this has anything more to do with the Tong, I’m afraid I won’t be of any assistance.”

“The Tong?” Jane asks confused.

“Ancient crime syndicate in China,” Sherlock explains. “Tell me, how old were you when you began hauling for them?”

Soo Lin winces, and sits back on her stool. “Fifteen. I was an orphan; I had no livelihood of my own, and thereby no choice.”

“Wait, you were a smuggler?” Jane says.

“Yes. I was all alone, and left to work for the bosses,” she admits. She tucks a strand of shiny black hair behind her ear.

“Who were they?” Sherlock asks clasping his hands behind his back.

Soo Lin looks up at him and brings her right ankle to rest atop her knee. She works her shoe off, and bares her heel under the light. A small black flower encased in a circle is tattooed to her skin. “They are called the Black Lotus. Every foot soldier bares the mark. By the time I was sixteen, I was smuggling thousands of pounds of drugs across the border and into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England, and they gave me a job; everything was better here, a new life…” she trails off, her breath hitching.

“But now they’ve found you,” Sherlock says, and Soo Lin’s lip trembles. Jane reaches across the table and places her hand on her forearm.

“You’ve seen the cipher?” she asks and Sherlock nods. “It is his signature. I recognise it well. There is only one man that would do this: Zhi Zhu.”

“Zhi Zhu?”

“‘The Spider,’” Sherlock says. Soo Lin shudders a little. “Who is he? You seem like you know him.”

“Know him? Oh yes, I know him well. I had hoped after five years they would have forgotten me, but a small community like ours — they are never far away. They never let you leave this life.” Tears gather at the corners of her eyes. “After all we’ve been through, it would only be right that it would be him to come after me.”

Sherlock cocks his head, his face lighting up with realisation. “He is your brother, isn’t he?” he says, voice soft.

Soo Lin closes her eyes, and the tears roll down her face. Jane moves her hand from her forearm down to clutch the girl’s wrist. She takes a breath and continues on. “Two orphans left to work for the Black Lotus or starve together on the streets. What could we do? My brother became their puppet; in the hands of the one they call Shan, the Black Lotus general. When I didn’t want a part of this business any more, he said I betrayed him. When he came by a few days ago, he wanted me to help him find something. He said it was my duty to him as a loyal sister; one who shared his very blood. I refused, and the next day I came to work the cipher was waiting for me.”

“He asked your help to track down the thing that was taken?” Sherlock asks kneeling down in front of her so he can read her face.

“Yes, but I have no idea what it was. It’s only a matter of time before he finds me,” she says morosely.

“We’re not going to let that happen,” Jane says definitively. Sherlock stands and pulls out the folded picture of the graffiti at the railway.

“Can you decipher this?” Sherlock says earnestly.

“These are numbers,” Soo Lin says carefully, her eyes scanning the picture. Sherlock flattens it out on the worktop.

“Yes.”

“See here, this line. It’s the Chinese number one.”

“Yes, and this one is a fifteen,” Sherlock says again pointing to the mock figure eight symbol. “But what is the code?”

“It ancient. All the smugglers know it. It’s based upon a book…” she trails off, and gets to her feet. Just then all the lights shut off in the Restoration room, plunging them into darkness. She inhales sharply and whispers, her voice full of dread, “Zhi Zhu. He has found me.”

Sherlock suddenly takes off across the room, his feet pounding along the concrete floor.

“Sherlock!” Jane calls out in an urgent whisper, but he doesn’t hear her, and bangs through the door. “Dammit!” Jane turns to Soo Lin, and grabs her hand. She drags her over to the crate she was inspecting earlier, and moves a box or two creating a small space for one person to hide in. Soo Lin flinches as the sound of a gun rings out, and Jane curses again under her breath. “I have to go after him. Bolt the door after me, and then come back here. Don’t move for anything, got it?”

“Yes, but I have to tell you —” she starts, but is cut off by another gun shot. Jane is already sprinting towards the door.

“Don’t move from that spot!” she calls over her shoulder, and crashes through the door out into the small corridor. _Stupid, bloody, arrogant, bastard!_ she thinks as she hides behind a column. _Please, don’t be dead._

* * *

“Some of these skulls are over two hundred thousand years old! Have a bit of respect!” Sherlock yells after another bullet whizzes past and embeds itself in the wall next to him. He breathes heavily with his back against a display case, and waits for the next onslaught, but nothing ever comes. “Thank you,” he grumbles, brushing the concrete dust off his coat sleeve. He closes his eyes in order to maximise his auditory range and brings up a mental map of the room at the front of his Mind Palace. He only got a cursory glace at it after Jane and he stumbled out of their hiding place, but it was enough as he recalls the layout to near perfect accuracy. He makes a slow circle, and a small scuffling movement catches his attention.

(Right most corner of the room next to, if not directly behind the display of the sarcophagus.)

His eyes flash open, and he crouches low to the ground, manoeuvring from case to partition as stealthily as possible. Finally he manages to press up against the sarcophagus case and can hear the rapid breathing from his assailant from the other side. He waits until he can hear them hold their breath, signaling their decision to forego their hiding place. The muscles in Sherlock’s back and legs coil and are ready to spring, and when the shadowy figure finally steps out from behind the display, Sherlock realises his mistake too late, and is already tackling Jane around her waist. The only thing he is able to do to correct his error is cradle the back of her head so she doesn’t smack it on the hard floor upon impact.

“Oof!” she groans as they land. “Bloody tosser,” she remarks in a whisper.

“Are you all right?” he asks still holding her head.

She breathes in and looks up at him, eyebrow cocked. “How is it we keep finding ourselves in this position?” she asks, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He’s half inclined to grin back. Instead he helps her to her feet.

“Where did he go?” Sherlock whispers as they make their way out of the room. Something wasn’t right. “If he were wanting to kill us he’d have done so by now. This is the only entrance to this wing of the floor, all he’d have to do is wait.” He turns around in the entrance of said wing. (Unless…) He looks at Jane just as the realisation crashes over her as well.

“No,” she breathes, and just then a final gunshot rings out from the floor below them. _“No!”_ she yells and she takes off in the direction of the staircase.

“Jane! Wait!” Sherlock yells, and for once he can’t manage to catch up with her as she runs harder still. Sherlock rounds the corner of the corridor just as Jane bangs on the door to the Restoration Room with her fists.

“Soo Lin!” she calls and turns to him. “Open it!” she commands, and Sherlock drops to his knee, lock pick set in hand. Jane paces furiously behind him muttering under her breath the whole time, and Sherlock can just barely make out snatches of what she’s saying. The most frequent phrase he hears is: _‘London. London, you’re in London for chrissakes,’_ and an iciness washes over him. Finally the lock clicks, and Jane is shoving him out of the way.

“Jane!” he says and tries to stop her, but she’s already running into the room.

“Oh Jesus,” she says and drops to her knees in front of a dark shape. “Soo Lin? Can you hear me?” Sherlock watches as she checks the girls pulse. “She’s still alive!” she cries almost in triumph and Sherlock immediately pulls out his phone and calls Dimmock.

“And ambulance is on its way,” Sherlock says snapping his phone shut and making his way cautiously over to Jane as she attempts to staunch the bleeding. He can see that she’s shaking (tremor in both hands now, blinking rapidly, talking all the while to the unconscious girl in a soothing tone as she herself falls apart at the seams.) “What can I do?” he asks kneeling down in front of her.

Jane’s litany of _‘Hold on, hold on, please god,’_ is interrupted, and her head snaps up. She blinks a few times as if just remembering that he’s still here, and he’s reminded of her mantra out in the hall. (PTSD. Flashback? She’s fighting with ghosts, and she’s losing.)

“Um, put your coat under her head,” she says, seemingly shaking herself out of her stupor. She keeps pressure on the wound in Soo Lin’s abdomen all the while, her composure coming back to her bit by bit.

“All right,” he says and shucks his coat, balling it up neatly so he can tuck it under her head. They sit in silence for a moment.

“There’s so much blood,” Jane whispers and squeezes her eyes shut. “I shouldn’t have left her. I _promised_.”

“Jane Watson,” Sherlock says sternly. “Look at me,” he commands, and her eyes reluctantly find his. “You are not doing this now. Not ever, do you understand?”

“I —”

“I said, _do you understand?”_ he levels and grips her chin so she can’t look away. She closes her eyes briefly again before opening them. She squares her jaw in determination and nods a little and he releases her.

“Yes. Okay,” she says. “I need you to do something for me,” she says steeling herself.

“Anything.”

“Just keep — talking to me, all right?” she says and wipes an errant tear from her chin with her shoulder. “Keep me _here.”_

Sherlock is a little taken aback at this request, but he quickly concedes the importance of this. “What, er, what do you want me to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” she says voice wavering. “Anything. Bees. You like bees. Is it true that they are impossible?”

“Impossible? How do you mean?”

“I read somewhere that it’s aerodynamically impossible for them to fly,” she says.

“The thought that bees violate aerodynamic theory is just myth that has been embedded in our culture since the 1930’s. Supposedly a German aerodynamicist calculated that honeybees couldn’t generate enough lift to fly.”

“But clearly they can?” Jane says closing her eyes after checking Soo Lin’s pulse again.

“Yes clearly. The problem was that the aerodynamicist anaologised a bee’s wings with that of fixed wing designs such as aircrafts and the like. It is true that since the wings of a bee are smaller in proportion to their bodies they would never get off the ground if they were built like an aeroplane. However, the bee functions more like a helicopter. It’s not about aerodynamics; it’s about mechanics,” Sherlock finishes.

“Huh,” Jane says, her eyes more clear than they were before. “I’m not sure I like having it explained in the end.”

Sherlock huffs out an annoyed breath. “Well you asked,” he mumbles. Jane leans forward chuckling weakly until her forehead rests on his shoulder.

“I did. But I think I like thinking them impossible,” she says, her voice muffled. “It gives me hope.”

“Hope?” Sherlock says. (He realises he’s repeating what she just said, but he is surprised by Jane’s reaction.)

“It’s the idea that against all odds they can do something everyone says they can’t,” she says.

“I suppose…” he trails off, and tentatively wraps an arm around her pulling her closer so she can rest a little more against him. They sit like that in silence, Jane occasionally checking Soo Lin’s pulse, until the sound of sirens finally reaches them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like when people die sooo I changed it. Artistic license and whatnot.


	10. Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing Jane needs is a crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings ahoy: Unresolved Romantic Tension.
> 
> So sorry. ~~not sorry at all HAHAHA!~~ ahem.
> 
> I hope you all like it! And I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your comments. Things have been a little rough for me for a while, and writing is pretty much my only outlet. I am so glad I found this community that I can be a part of. You all are fantastic. xxHoney
> 
> *Link updated!

* * *

Sherlock struggles to keep up with Jane as she strides up to New Scotland Yard, practically leaving a trail of smoke in her wake. Her behaviour is…interesting, and part of him is intrigued. He half expected her to be upset or distraught or — well he didn’t know exactly, but angry? Furious even? It was unexpected.

After the ambulance finally came for Soo Lin, Sherlock assumed Jane would feel relieved. Instead she rattled off the injuries, and helped the EMT’s as best as she could, before marching angrily to the side of the road and demanding Sherlock hail them a cab back to the station. She didn’t say one word the entire journey, and for once Sherlock didn’t badger her. Partially because he wanted to observe her reactions objectively, and partially because she reminded him of a small powder keg. (He didn’t want to be the one with the fuse in this scenario.)

Luckily for him, Jane apparently already had a target in mind. He watches bemusedly as she storms up to Inspector Dimmock.

“How many people will it take before you admit that this maniac is out there?” she accosts the young DI. His back is to her, and he hunches his shoulders, busying himself with idle paperwork for a minute before he turns around and sits at his desk. Jane smacks her hands down on top of his desk so he is forced to look at her. “A young girl was gunned down tonight, so that makes three people in three days. You’re supposed to be finding him!”

“Based on what?!” Dimmock shouts getting back to his feet. “A suicide, a – a contaminated crime scene, and a shooting?”

“Come on, Inspector!” Sherlock steps in. “You honestly don’t believe that Van Coon’s murder was just another city suicide. You’ve seen the ballistics report. And what do you mean the crime scene was contaminated? Lukis’s?”

“Yeah. Over half the evidence has been tampered with,” he says.

“Sod the evidence!” Jane yells. “You’ve been fighting Sherlock from the start! That’s why your victim count keeps going up!” 

Jane’s face suddenly pales, and she sits heavily in one of the leather chairs across from Dimmock, her head in her hands. (Still not over the concussion and the shock it seems.)

“What’s going on out here?” Lestrade says coming around the corner. He spots Sherlock instantly. “Oh should have known it was you.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says making his way to the small water cooler he was stood by. “Tell your colleague how to do his job.” He fills a paper cup and brings it over to Jane. She takes it silently, her face still ashen.

Lestrade then notices Jane, and he is likewise at her side. “What’s all the shouting?”

“I assume you heard about the incident at the Museum that took place earlier tonight?” Sherlock says.

“I — yeah that poor girl,” he says, understanding creeping into his expression. He looks at Sherlock, and Sherlock nods slightly. He kneels down by Jane’s side. “Hey? All right, Janey?”

“Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers — a gang called the Black Lotus operating right here in London under your very nose,” Sherlock snarls.

Dimmock pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, but can you _prove_ it?”

(The heel of the foot. The mark of the Tong. All who haul should have one.)

“We need to make a trip to St. Bart’s,” Sherlock says moving to the door. “I’ll have all the proof you’ll need. Come on, Jane.”

“She’ll catch up with you later, Sherlock,” Lestrade says getting to his feet. Jane’s head is back to resting in her hands to where he can’t see her expression. Lestrade places a protective hand on her shoulder.

“But —”

Jane raises her head wearily, but she gives him a tired smile. “You go on Sherlock. I’ll meet you back at the flat. I think I am in need of a pint,” she says, aiming for levity but falling short.

He nods sharply, and whirls out of the room, Inspector Dimmock on his heels.

***

Molly wasn’t in her office. (Annoying. Inconvenient.) He looks down at his wrist watch: 9:45pm. She usually takes a lunch break around this time, so after instructing the DI to stay put, he heads off in the direction of the hospital canteen.

He spots her over by the entrées, and has it in his mind to shake her and demand she get back to the morgue, but he stops the impulse and for once, thinks about what Jane would say.

 _‘You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,’_ is what she would say. (Ridiculous adage. Who would want to catch flies anyway?) (But the meaning isn’t lost on him regardless.) Frustrated, he wavers, uncertain on how to proceed with getting what he wants in the most efficient way possible. This was Jane’s area: dealing with people. He never really found merit in the subtle approach, but ever since their acquaintanceship he grudgingly admitted that there were certain benefits to patience, and manners. (Apparently.)

He makes his way up to Molly, and clears his throat.

“So what are you thinking? The pork or the pasta?” He says aiming for small talk even though it makes his toes curl.

“Oh!” she starts. “It’s you!” She blushes and traps a nervous grin by biting her lip.

(Yes of course it was him. Who else?)

He tries to rein in his patience. “This place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?” (Was that humour? Hopefully it was. What ever the case it was lost on her anyway given her blank look. This was going _swimmingly_.) He tries not to roll his eyes. Mostly at himself. “I’d stick with the pasta. Don’t want to do the roast pork — especially if you’re slicing up cadavers.” It was out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about what it was he was saying. (Honestly, what was wrong with him?) He has the sudden urge to smack a hand over his eyes. This awkward banter — he still couldn’t see the point in it other than being an _enormous_ waste of time.

Molly smiles timidly, trying to hide her alarm. She swallows, “What are you having?”

“Oh I don’t eat when I’m working. Digestion slows me down,” he dismisses.

“You’re working?”

“Need to examine some bodies.”

“‘Some?’ More than one?” she asks. (Now they were getting somewhere.)

“Eddie Van Coon, and Brian Lukis.”

The recognition crosses her face, and she pulls out the clipboard her tray is resting on. “They’re on my list.”

Sherlock tries to school his face into one of diffidence. “Could you…wheel them back out for me?”

“Oh well…the paperwork has already gone through…” she says apologetically. (Damn. Damn it all.)

He frowns as she turns back to surveying the food in front of her, an awkward silence stretching out before them. Sherlock clears his throat aiming for a different tack.

“You, um, changed your hair,” he says. (Was that right? It was different, wasn’t it?)

“What?” she says looking at him with a mixture of surprise, and, ah yes, delight. It seems as if he was on the right track, finally.

“The – the style. It’s different. You usually part it in the middle, but now it’s off to the side.”

“Oh er, well…” she stammers, suddenly unsure. She twirls the end of her pony tail around one of her fingers.

“It’s good. It suits you better this way,” Sherlock finishes lamely. (God. This was just — downright painful.) He forces a smile.

It has the desired effect, however, and Molly blushes, a pleased grin tugging her lips. She switches out the plate on her tray for a takeaway box. “I’ll just pay for this, and then we’ll take a look at your body…er, bodies,” she says, blushing even more. Sherlock nods amicably, and when she turns her back to help herself to the pasta his smile fades.

“Just the feet,” he says following her to the register.

“The _feet?”_ she says stopping in her tracks. He rolls his eyes and steers her forward.

* * *

“Are you sure you have time for this? I mean, I’m not interrupting some…thing? Important?” Jane stammers as Lestrade guides her to the table in the corner of the pub where they had a least some semblance of privacy.

“Absolutely not. I’m calling my shift early,” he states. “Besides, this _is_ important.” He motions for the barkeep to get them a couple of pints.

She sinks into the plastic booth with a sigh. She feels numb inside, and is grateful that Lestrade also orders a couple of shots of whiskey to go their drinks. The burning warms her as it travels down her throat. It makes her eyes sting, but it eases the knot in her bad shoulder from holding herself so tense. From compressing Soo Lin’s wound for so long…

She shudders.

“How ya doing kiddo?” Lestrade says, his eyes soft.

“You haven’t called me kiddo since I was twelve, Uncle Greg. I must look like shit,” she scoffs bitterly.

“What happened tonight?”

“Sherlock said you knew,” Jane says, her eyes sliding to the table where she observes the dings and scratches on the wooden surface. She really didn’t want to talk about it…about how she almost lost her cool tonight.

“Yeah I know _what_ happened, but I also know that look, hey?” He tugs her chin so she’s looking at him — directly into pale brown eyes that remind her so much of her father it physically hurts. She presses her lips together in a tight line, her resolve crumbling. She leans back in her seat breaking eye contact with him, and heaving in a deep breath.

“I left her, Greg,” she finally admits on an exhale. “I was supposed to protect her, and I – I don’t know what I was thinking. I heard the gun shots, and I thought the worst, so I abandoned her to go after Sherlock.” Her breath comes out ragged, but she’s at the precipice and can’t stop talking now. “I told her to hide — _god_ why didn’t she stay where I told her? — and then I left. She was defenceless, and scared out of her mind, and I _bloody left her_.” She clenches her left hand as the tremor returns with a vengeance. “I left her for _him.”_

“You two have grown awfully close in these past months,” Lestrade says, concern fretting his brow.

“Yeah, well — no, not like that!” Jane says finally picking up his meaning. “We just…go well together. You could say we balance each other out.”

Lestrade eyes her, unconvinced. “I could say it, but I wouldn’t believe it. That man is all sorts of chaos. Not too long ago his ‘balance’ came in the form of a chemical.”

“He’s not like that anymore,” Jane says rising to Sherlock’s defence.

“How do you know? He’s a veritable hurricane even when sober,” Lestrade scoffs.

“True,” she concedes almost smiling. “but I would know if something were amiss. I know him. We – we know each other.”

“How do you mean?” he says picking up on those subtle threads of that something more that existed between her and Sherlock, seemingly from the moment they met.

“He — I almost lost it tonight, Greg,” she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper. “The gun shots, and the – the blood. For a moment I was back… _there.”_ She presses her thumb into the palm of her left hand trying to massage the juddering tremor away. She blinks hard a couple of times, feeling exposed and vulnerable at the admission.

He reaches out and gently takes her hand, taking over her ministrations.

“The war?” he asks.

She nods as he curls his fingers into hers, holding her hand. It’s steadying somehow, and she swallows. “I’ve heard about them — flashbacks, you know? — from people down at the VA clinic. They’re not uncommon, but they’ve never happened to me until tonight. I could actually _feel_ the hot air on my face and the sand digging into my knees. _Christ_.” She swipes a traitorous tear from her face with her free hand as Lestrade continues to hold her left one.

“Ah, sweetheart,” he whispers sympathetically and brushes his thumb over the back of her knuckles. The endearment should rankle her, but for some reason it’s nice to hear for a change. There was a time when she was younger that her family was really close to the Lestrades. 

Back before her father died, there was always dinner at their house every third Sunday, and it was always something she looked forward to. She remembers the one Boxing Day she fell out of their tree in the back yard after Harry dared her to try and climb to the top. It was Greg who scooped her up in his arms and drove her to all the way to A&E and waited there until her parents could come and collect her. He sang her Christmas songs deliberately off key to get her to smile and her mind off the pain…

She closes her eyes, and squeezes his hand back. “It was Sherlock. Sherlock who brought me back,” she says.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade says, and she looks up at him though her lashes.

“He talked to me. About bees, and aerodynamics, until my head was back in the present,” she releases his hand so she can smooth back her hair. “That man is a nightmare when it comes to social niceties and general appropriateness, but for some reason he can read me like a book, and he’s always there with what I need.” She takes a breath. “I was,” _so alone_ “just an invalided soldier, and I” _owe him so much_ “am grateful that my life has purpose again. Sherlock — what he does, the life that he leads — makes that possible.” She meets her uncle’s eyes.

“Only you can give your life purpose, Janey,” he says sternly. “And do you know what I see?”

“What?” she asks hesitantly. She almost feels like a little girl again under his admonishment.

His gaze softens again. “I see some one who just saved a girl’s life tonight. I see someone who is vital and necessary to more people than she’s aware of.” He becomes more serious at this point. “I just…you give so much of yourself, Jane. So much of your heart; you always have. Be careful when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am. I will,” Jane says a little weakly. She digs her thumbnail into a groove on the table. “Sherlock is my friend. That’s all there is to it,” she falters. It sounds lame even to her own ears, and for the first time she wonders why that is: why she’s the one she’s now trying to convince.

She wipes a hand over her face. This was the last thing she needed at the moment, some sort of crisis.

“It’s getting late,” Lestrade says. “I’ve got an early one tomorrow.”

“Yeah I should be going too,” she says. She reaches for her wallet.

“Nope. It’s on me tonight. The least I can do,” he smiles.

“Thanks, Greg. I think I needed this more than I thought,” she says, and they both stand.

“This was nice. Hey what say you to dinner next [Sunday?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/1989019) Kathleen would be chuffed to meet you. Ever since I told her you were back and living in London she hasn’t stopped pestering me to bring you ‘round. I’ll also have the kids that weekend too. You can see how much they’ve grown.”

“Oh yes because I just love being reminded of my age,” she teases. “That sounds really nice, actually.”

“Yeah? You can even invite Sherlock if you want,” he says.

Jane looks at him as if he sprouted another head. “You sure about that?”

“No, but let’s just blame it on the whiskey, hey?” he winks. She laughs, and he pulls her into a bear hug reminiscent of when she was younger. “Stay out of trouble, all right?”

“You know me,” she grins, and makes her way back to Baker Street, feeling a bit lighter and more at ease than she was before.

***

She barely slides her key into the lock before the door is yanked open, and she’s being dragged up the stairs by her mad flatmate.

“It’s not just a criminal organisation, Jane! It’s a cult!” Sherlock says bounding up the stairs. “But there’s something else too. Think about it! Why did Zhi Zhu need his sister’s help?”

“Er…?” Jane is left standing in the middle of the sitting room looking for all intents and purposes like she’s just been dragged through a whirlwind. Which might be more accurate than not when dealing with the lunatic.

“Come on, think!” he says turning back to her. “Why did he need _her_ expertise?”

“She worked at the Museum?”

“Exactly.”

Suddenly something clicks. “Oh yes I see. She worked with antiques.”

“Yes, _valuable_ antiques, Jane.” He pulls out his laptop. “Ancient Chinese relics most likely purchased on the black market. China’s home to thousands of treasures buried after Mao’s Revolution. And guess who’s selling them?”

“The Black Lotus,” she says.

“Look at this,” Sherlock says sitting at the desk and typing in an address on his computer. An auctioneer site pops up on the screen with the title Crispian’s, and Sherlock clicks the field that narrows the search down to Chinese/Asian art works recently sold. He scrolls down and enlarges a picture of a set of ornate vases. “See the date? Arrived from China four days ago, but the vendor is anonymous. Now why would that be? Surely in ordinary circumstances the person who found two undiscovered treasures from the East would want at least some credit, don’t you think?”

“There’s two of them — fragile and tightly packed you were saying? One for each of their suitcases?”

“Precisely. They’re stealing these precious relics back in China, then slowly feeding them to Britain. There’s been others too: paintings, a small statue, an ancient alter made of brass. And look at the dates.”

Jane leans over Sherlock’s shoulder, the dates leaping out at her immediately. “Hang on…” she reaches over and snatches Lukis’s diary sitting on a stack of papers. She flips through. “Each of these auctions corresponds with Brian Lukis traveling to China.”

“Yes, exactly. Same with Van Coon.” He looks at her, positively beaming.

“Brilliant,” she whispers. 

Sherlock’s smile slowly fades, replaced by curiosity and a subtle kind of awe, and she finally realises how close they are. He looks into her eyes, and Jane feels a spark of fire tingling at the base of her spine. _We’re just friends, of course we are,_ she thinks to herself, however she can’t deny the sudden electricity suspended between them. It pulls her in, and she leans forward at the same time he tilts his head up. They stare at each other for a moment more, and she doesn’t miss how Sherlock’s eyes dart down to her lips and back up, his pupils dilated making the blue irises look like crystal. He breathes out steadily through his nose, and she can smell his unique scent of expensive cologne and chemicals: the same scent she woke up to that morning when she found herself in his bed. 

She gasps a little when she realises that this is the smell she has begun to associate with safety — when Sherlock holds her in the middle of the night and keeps the terror in her memory at bay; and with the familiarity of home — the fact that 221b would just be another flat without this larger than life man to occupy every corner of her world. Of her…heart.

She tilts her head to the side, and he moves in until their noses are almost touching, and the danger she’s grown addicted to causes her heart to pound. Like the first day she met him, Jane finds herself teetering back upon that precipice, only this time she knows which side she hopes to land on…

“Hoo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson’s knock comes at the door, and reality comes crashing back into her. They spring apart guiltily, and Sherlock clears his throat. Jane can’t seem to figure out what to do with her hands, so she snatches Lukis’s diary again and buries her nose in it.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says snapping his lap top shut and rising to his feet.  
Jane doesn’t have to look up to feel the suspicious look their landlady is giving them. “What, um, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, Sherlock, dear. I’m sorry to…interrupt, but I was wondering, are we collecting for charity?”

“Charity?” Jane says for lack of anything else to contribute. She could feel her cheeks heating as she tries to look Mrs. Hudson in the eye. There is a knowing twinkle in her eye that is extremely hard to ignore. Thankfully, she chooses to continue on in neutral territory.

“There’s a young man at the door with crates of books.”

“Yes, they’re mine. Send them in,” Sherlock says, and turns his back to the rest of the room. He catches her eye briefly in the mirror, then looks away.


	11. Pretence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jane pretend every thing is fine. Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit short, and not much goes on, but I am trying to break up the ending scenes and this is the way it all landed on paper so to speak. And honestly, you guys are so great. I can't believe all the comments and hits I've been getting. You guys are the best. Enjoy!
> 
> *Link Updated!

* * *

After Inspector Dimmock finishes hauling up the last remaining crates of books, the uncomfortable tension that was created by the entrance of one ill-timed landlady became fiercely noticeable in the silent flat. Jane decides to be the one to break it.

“Lukis and Van Coon…?” she says inspecting one of the labels stuck to a crate.

“Yes. These are all the books from their respective flats,” Sherlock says and opens the crate closest to him. He still doesn’t look at her.

So they were going to pretend like nothing happened, then. Which was fine. Jane could do that. She was a master at sweeping things under the rug and forgetting about them. What had she even been thinking anyway? Kissing Sherlock Holmes? What a way to absolutely _ruin_ everything. Sherlock didn’t even do these things. He disdained sentiment, and most forms of human contact, and she knew very well what he thought of love —

Her mind stutters to a halt, and it feels as if she’s plunged into a vat of ice water.

_Love?_

That’s not what she meant at all. Where did that even come from? 

Jane is so wrapped up in the tumult of her thoughts that she nearly jumps right out of her skin at the return of Inspector Dimmock barging back in.

“Oh I almost forgot. We found these, at the Museum,” he says handing Sherlock a plastic evidence bag with the pictures of the graffiti Jane took with her phone. “Is this your writing?”

“We had hoped Soo Lin would be able to decipher it for us,” Sherlock says, and takes it out so he could stick it back on the mirror with sello tape. There’s a gap filled with awkward silence, and the Inspector shifts on his feet.

“Anything else I can do to assist you?” he asks, and Jane arches an eyebrow.

Sherlock doesn’t even look up from the book he’s pulled out and is currently rifling through. “Some _silence_ would be marvellous.”

“Right…” Dimmock says and looks at her. She gives a half-hearted shrug. “Well. I’ll be going then.”

“La’ters,” Sherlock says, and Jane blinks at him. How he managed to make that particular colloquialism sound aloof yet supercilious at the same time Jane didn’t know, but it was probably the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.

“I’m sorry, what?” she blurts when Dimmock leaves.

“What?” Sherlock asks, finally looking up at her. “I can be current.” He gives her a challenging look, but the effect is undermined due to the smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re such a dick,” she laughs and he can’t help but chuckle as well, and just like that the ice between them has thawed.

“Might do with some tea,” he says after their laughter has subsided.

“Yeah I’ll put the kettle on,” she says and makes her way to the kitchen. “So the numbers, then. What are they?”

“They’re references to books. Specifically, certain pages and certain words on those pages.”

She comes back out into the sitting room to stand in front of the mirror with Sherlock. “…Okay, so fifteen and one…”

“Page fifteen, and the first word on that page. The trick is finding which book the Black Lotus are referencing. Soo Lin said all the smugglers know it, so it’s based off a fairly common book; one that most people would own or have easy access to.”

Jane looks at the dozens of crates littering their sitting room, her heart beginning to sink as she puts two and two together. “And so we —?”

“— are going to catalogue each and every book from Lukis and Van Coon, correct,” Sherlock finishes, confirming her worst suspicions.

“We’re gonna need a lot more tea,” she says, and goes back into the kitchen to fetch the boiled kettle.

Hours later, she’s not sure how many, Jane’s head is swimming with book titles and random words nearly filling three whole pages of yellow legal paper. She rubs the back of her sore neck, and jumps when the tinny alarm of her watch goes off right by her ear. She looks down at it disorientated. It reads 07:00. Christ. They had been at it all night, and now she had an hour before she had to leave for work.

“That’s just marvellous,” she groans and thumps her head down on her arm. It was going to be a long day.

***

Her first ‘official’ day at the surgery was to be expected. That is: equal parts boring and tedious. She dealt mostly with people with the ‘Flu, prescribing decongestants, lots of rest, fluids, and in one uninspiring case, antibiotics. It was the most excitement she got all day, so it was no surprise, really that she nodded off during her shift, her head aching.

“Jane? Jane?”

Jane startles awake to the feeling of a hand on her shoulder. Her head shoots up from where it was nestled on top of her forearms, and she is met with Stephen’s concerned gaze peering at her through his metal rimmed glasses.

“Oh! God, I’m sorry,” she says, and surreptitiously wipes a spot of drool from her cheek. 

“I said you could take another day if you still felt poorly?” he says but not unkindly. He tilts her chin up gently and takes a look into her eyes. His hands are cool against her skin, and she didn’t realise it before, but her head does feel rather swimmy.

“No I’m — I’m all right…” she trails off. His hand is still cupping her chin, and it feels really nice all of a sudden to be touched this way. She leans in a bit, and something in Stephen’s gaze softens. He moves his hand up to her cheek and the tips of his fingers trace her skin.

“You’ve got marks there from your sleeves,” he says softly, grinning his boyish grin before he lowers his hand.

“Brilliant,” she remarks wryly. “God this is hardly professional. Falling asleep the first day on the job. Lines on my face. _Drooling.”_

Stephen chuckles. “Well it’s better than my first day. Intern fresh out of med school: I mixed up the blood samples, and dropped three jars of urine.”

“Yikes,” Jane says through her laughter.

“Yeah. Not one of my proudest moments,” he says and steps back as she gets to her feet a little more unsteady than she wished. She presses her finger tips into her temple, and tries to shake out the cobwebs. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I just had a bit of a late one last night.”

“What were you up doing?” Stephen asks with mild curiosity.

“I was attending a sort of book…event. Thing.”

“Oh. So Sherlock likes books, then?” he ventures. He tries to remain casual by folding his hands into his trouser pockets, but the faint blush gives him away. She’s oddly…flattered.

“Sherlock…he’s my…we’re flatmates,” she clarifies.

“Flatmates?” he says trying to cover up his relief. “Good. That’s good,” he nods to himself. “Can I…walk you home?”

She regards him for a moment taking note of his easy but hopeful expression. “Yeah. I’d like that,” she says, and she’s surprised she actually means it.

* * *

Sherlock is running out of time. The day is nearly gone, and he’s still no closer to cracking the cipher. He drags his fingers through his hair, and lets out a wordless roar of frustration.

“A book that everyone would own. A _book_ that everyone would _own,”_ he repeats pacing in short angry circles. 

He whips around to the book case and snatches the Oxford English Dictionary, an NHS manual, and the Holy Bible. He flips to page fifteen in the dictionary and slams it shut when the entry is ‘ADD.’ He chucks the useless thing aside, grabbing the health manual. The word is ‘NOSTRILS,’ and he lobs it across the room as hard as he can as if it insulted him personally. At the end of his fuse, he reaches for the Bible.

Page fifteen, entry one: …’I.’ ( _Damn!_ Damn it all right down to the furthest pits of _Hell_.)

He wants to hurtle this across the room as well, but he stops short. This one was Jane’s, and even though he’d never known her as an overly religious person, it was clear by the cracked binding and tattered leather edges this was a book she frequently poured over. He’d never actually seen her read it, but he knew that it was special to her given the fact it was on the shelf at eye-level for easy access and not tucked up high and out of sight. He opens the first page, and finds what he is looking for.

_To my dearest Janette._

_May this protect you in the darkest valleys of death and be a lamp onto thy feet and bring you back home._

_Love Da._

Sherlock closes the book and holds it in his hands a bit more carefully than before. This token traveled with Jane to Afghanistan and back, and was among the scant few possessions she truly treasured. More importantly, it was a vestige that Jane had a whole life before she met him. The thought comes as a shock to him, although he doesn’t know why that is. What’s even more of a shock is when he remembers how his own life was before he met Jane. He didn’t like to think about those days. (And it wasn’t like it was even that long ago. Why is that? Why is he so _possessed_ by her? And consequently, why doesn’t he mind?)

He tucks the Bible back onto the shelf with care, and sinks into his armchair with his fingers steepled under his chin. He lets his mind drift back to the events of last night, and closes his eyes.

Jane’s distress stands out to him foremost. The tight downward crest of her lips and the pleats of her brow as she attempted to keep Soo Lin alive are not things he likes to linger over too long. He files the image away in a drawer that’s labeled ‘Expressions’ and figuratively slides it back in place in the wall with dozens of other drawers filled with nuances and facts about Jane. Instead, he pulls out the drawer marked ‘Untitled’ and pulls out the memory of her leaning over his shoulder as they both looked at the Ming Vases on the computer screen. 

He pauses the image, and with his hands pantomimes clearing away the dross and leaving more salient details that he could manipulate at will. First he rids the tableau before his mind’s-eye of all sight and sound leaving only the feeling of her warm body pressed against him and the airy smell of her apple-blossom hand crème. When had she reapplied it, he wonders? It had been faded most likely from earlier in the day, but it still clung strongly to the under side of her wrists when she reached across him to point at something on the screen. The scent is subtly different on her own skin than it is in the bottle, he notices, the floral notes leaving behind a citrus undertone mingling with Jane’s own scent that permeated her hair and clothes. This recalls the other (pleasant) olfactory memory of his nose pressed against the crown of her head as she slept against him, smelling for once purely like herself. He folds the unique smell of tea leaves and cotton and gun oil like a paper lotus and tucks it away.

Sherlock then brings the scene into crystal clarity once more, and they are suddenly bent towards one another as if attracted by polarity, noses almost touching. Her intense gaze enthralled him, and her lips slightly parted in surprise, reminded him of the warm skin of a peach: supple and lush. He remembers the sudden desire to want to sample those lips for no other reason than to _taste_. To catalogue the sensation of his sliding against hers, and the dewy scent of her breath as it mingled with his own. He can imagine, oh sure he can. But he wouldn’t be a very good scientist if he was simply left to his imagination. (He needed data. Cold hard facts.)

The charged air between them made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and as he remembered the excitement coiling around his frame he pauses the image once more, savouring the all-encompassing thrill of the moment at its peak just before Mrs. Hudson barged in and shattered the gossamer tension binding them together.

It is before this gut wrenching occurrence that he decides to tuck the memory away in its neat little box and slides the drawer shut.

He emerges from his Mind Palace much the same way he entered: conflicted.

Agitated, Sherlock gets to his feet and plants both hands squarely on the mantle piece, glaring at the collage of papers, and photographs. One scrap catches his eye, a torn off edge of a poster that he found when they were at the railway. He stabs it definitively with his forefinger, and his eyes flick over the bold lettering of the advert: ONE NIGHT ONLY, YELLOW DRAGON CIRCUS FROM SHANGHAI – DON’T MISS THE WORLD FAMOUS CHINESE BIRD-SPIDER AERIAL ACT. 

(Coincidence? Hardly.)

If the Black Lotus was planning something, the easiest way to find out would be to infiltrate the circus. He had already called the box office in advance and requested two tickets for this evening for Jane and him. 

As if on cue, Sherlock hears the street door open signaling Jane’s return, and he snatches the paper from the mirror.

However, he stops half way to the door to the lounge when he hears two sets of feet on the stairs followed by two different voices. (Jane’s: affable but strained – nervous maybe? – she laughs at something the other person says, male, about 5’9” due to his gait. The timbre sounds familiar – ah yes that colleague of hers, Samuel was it?) (Why is _he_ here?) He hastily shoves the scrap of paper into his pocket and leans against the mantle assuming an air of disinterest.

“— make you some tea. It’s the least I can do,” Jane says leading the way into the flat.

“Well thank you. Tea sounds lovely,” comes the reply, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. The awkward useless banter sets his teeth on edge.

“Oh Sherlock,” Jane says only just noticing him. “I thought you’d be at Bart’s or something.”

“Doing _what_ exactly?” he snipes, turning away. “I’m not putting you out am I? You and Simon? I only live here, but if you need me to leave I suppose I can entertain myself somehow.”

“Take it easy,” Jane says hanging her coat up on the hook. “I don’t want you to leave. I just can’t believe you’ve been at those books all day that’s all. I suppose you haven’t eaten as well?” He doesn’t deign a response even though he can feel her concerned gaze as she no doubt deduces the answer for herself. “I’ll make you a cuppa too then, you great sod. Stephen, er, sorry about the mess, and my obnoxious flatmate. Ignore both if you can and make yourself comfortable.” (Oh so they’re back to _flatmates,_ are they? Not colleagues. Not friends. Not —)

“So this is what you and Jane do? Solve puzzles?” Stephen says coming up behind him and staring at the clutter taped to the mirror. He unbuttons his jacket and stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets. Sherlock has to physically tamp down his frisson of irritation.

“They’re not _puzzles,”_ he says through his teeth. “we — I consult for the police.”

“Consult…?” he says, confused.

“Yes. Murders. Crimes. The like. And Jane comes with to shed some light on the medical aspect of things.”

The other man’s eyebrows inch towards his hairline. “So she wasn’t joking about the whole crime-solving thing?”

“No.” He says and begins to jot a few notes down on the small pad he has on the mantle. An awkward silence stretches out between them, the scritching of pen and paper the only sound. Stephen shifts on his feet.

“What, um, what are all these squiggles?” he asks pointing to the photo of the graffiti.

“They’re numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect,” Sherlock says sparing him a condescending glance in the mirror.

“Of course they are. Should have known that one,” Stephen remarks sarcastically. Sherlock puts down his pen and turns to face him. He arches and eyebrow after giving him a once over. (He looks ridiculously confident even though his taste in attire is atrocious — tweed jacket, brown leather elbow patches, black pea coat slung over Jane’s armchair along with a scarf the colour of rag weed, honestly thank goodness Jane was partially colour blind — with an easy smile, and self-assured slope to his shoulders.)

“Don’t take her to the cinema,” he says abruptly, eyeing Jane as she bustles about in the kitchen.

“Sorry?”

“When you ask her out tonight, and when she says yes as she undoubtedly will do, don’t take her to the cinema. It’s boring and predictable. You obviously want to impress her. You should take her here,” Sherlock says and pulls the scrap of poster out of his pocket, slightly crumpled.

“I…you really think so?” Stephen says lowering his voice and reaching for the paper.

“Show starts at eight. The tickets are reserved under the name, Holmes,” Sherlock says by way of an answer. He crosses the living room and dons his coat just as Jane comes in with three steaming mugs of tea.

“Where are you going?” she says.

“Bart’s,” he says sharply, and winds his scarf under his chin. “Have a nice [_date,_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914021/chapters/2012738)” he says snapping the t off at the end. He gives a false, fractured smile before heading down the stairs without another word.

(He pretends he’s not jealous. Not at all.)


	12. The Opera Singer and the Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night at the circus...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 3000 hits on this one? You guys are just marvellous. So here is a big hello and a thanks for those of you who have just started reading this with me.
> 
> This chapter has a lot more action in it than the last one, and I hope I did it justice. It's pretty close to canon with not a whole lot of twisty-twists so I'm sorry if it seems a little tedious. The next few chapters should be exciting, and I can't wait. :)

* * *

“So how did you hear about this place?” Jane asks as they walk up to the quaint venue. If she wasn’t properly suspicious before, she most certainly is now. Hanging above them are half a dozen paper Chinese lanterns, and a man in a lion mask juggling clubs near the stairs to the entrance.

“Er…a friend. Phoned me up,” Stephen hedged. She doesn’t buy it for a second, and she levels a look at him until he chuckles bashfully cuffing a hand through his hair. “All right it was your flatmate who suggested it, actually. Told me I shouldn’t be boring.”

Ah. Of-bloody-course.

“So what? Sherlock...just gave you tickets?” she asks.

“Yeah. Said there would be two waiting for us. Awfully nice of him,” Stephen replies amicably.

“Yes. Nice…” she trails off. Sherlock had booked these tickets in advance. Two of them. Then in a fit of pique he shoved them off on Stephen. Was there another lead he was looking into? Without her? The thought irritates her, and makes her a more than a little uneasy. She honestly didn’t know how Sherlock managed to _not_ get killed before he had someone looking out for his arse.

They grab a programme from the Chinese woman in the silk robe and fake smile, and Jane walks up the steps with Stephen’s hand hovering behind her.

“Two tickets for ‘Holmes’ please,” Stephen says to the box office manager once they approach the booth.

“All right,” the man says and rifles through the plastic box marked ‘Will-Call’. “Enjoy the show.”

“Will do!” Stephen says cheerfully, and they make their way to the theatre. Before they enter, however, Stephen stops her. “I got you something. Nothing too big, but…” he reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out a small box. She blinks down at it startled, her thoughts of Sherlock and what ever mess he’s probably getting himself into momentarily forgotten.

A slow grin spreads across her face. She had almost forgotten she was on a date. God she hadn’t been on a date in — well numbers weren’t important. The point was, she had actually said yes like it was the most natural thing in the world, which was something.

“You got me a gift?”

“I did. That’s not tacky is it? Cliché?” he asks as he smiles down at her.

“Don’t be mistaken: every girl likes to be wooed especially on a first date,” she replies with a hint of her own cheek. She takes the box from his fingers and opens it. Inside is a small hair comb adorned with blue glass beads scattered around a black metallic rose. It’s tasteful and different, and she finds that it’s immediately something she would pick out for herself if she were so inclined. She beams up at him.

“Do you like it? I notice you usually keep your hair up…”

“I love it!” she says and shoves it in his hands. “Put it in. I can’t see what I’m doing,” she says and he chuckles. She feels the cool metal of the comb slide snugly against her scalp as it comes to rest at the top of the elastic hair band. She turns around to thank him, but stops when she spots something over Stephen’s shoulder. Or rather someone…

A woman wrapped in a silk shawl like the one greeting them at the door, stood a little ways from them with a camera in front of her face. Not exactly unusual for an event like this, but the fact that it was trained right on them made her suspicious, and her senses go on high alert.

“Too tight?” Stephen frowns looking into her face.

“What? Oh no, no it’s fine,” she says touching the top of the beaded comb. She looks back to where the woman was standing only to see that she’s vanished. Odd, but probably nothing. Hopefully nothing. She tries to shake that all too familiar feeling off, and she turns back to Stephen. She smiles. “How does it look?”

“Fantastic. You are just, fantastic,” he says with a matching grin and offers her his arm. She threads hers through his, and they make their way into the theatre.

Theatre, might have been an exaggeration, Jane realises when they take their place at the centre ring with the rest of the crowd who all looked to be students. Jane and Stephen exchange sceptical glances, trying not to smirk.

“It’s, um, it’s been years since anyone’s taken me to the circus,” Jane says through a burgeoning grin.

Stephen clears his throat. “Well, er, hopefully you like your tightrope walkers and jugglers in performance spaces deemed standing-room only.”

They both snigger at the absurdity.

“It’s a bit like art isn’t it?” Jane says eyeing the flickering lanterns that surrounded the centre ring. It added to the whole ‘bohemian artist vibe’ of the venue, steel beams across the ceiling and a stage with an antiquated Grand Drape to boot. There was even the lovely scent of marijuana wafting about the air. Stephen pinches the bridge of his nose, shoulders shaking.

“Oh god, that’s the last time I take dating advice from some random bloke I just met,” he says, and Jane laughs even more trying to stifle it as the lights dim and an imposing object under a cloth is wheeled out to the middle of the ring.

A man begins beating a small hand drum while a woman with a white painted face and dark lips comes out from behind the object. She’s clad in a dense robe ornately stitched, with a head-dress of some sort equipped with plumes of feathers. She looks familiar somehow, and it takes Jane a moment to realise that this was the same woman from the lobby, nearly unrecognisable now due to the makeup. It makes her uneasy.

“They call her the Opera Singer,” a familiar baritone voice explains from behind her making her jump. “as in traditional Chinese Opera. Let’s hope she doesn’t sing…that particular variant of musicality can be quite harsh on westernised ears.”

“Sherlock?!” Jane whispers, whipping around. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I thought it was obvious. I’m intending to watch a…well what ever this is. I think that’s a crossbow…” Sherlock says vaguely, his gaze trained on the object under the cloth. The Opera Singer whips off the cover, revealing said crossbow.

“I thought there were only two tickets?” Stephen says lowering his voice as the people around them begin to shoot them dirty looks. He tries to only sound curious and not at all put out, but he doesn’t quite manage it. Jane doesn’t blame him. Bloody date-crasher.

“There were. I called back and got one for myself,” Sherlock says quirking an eyebrow in Stephen’s direction.

“Come on, Sherlock, _behave,”_ Jane hisses.

“Don’t you see, Jane? It’s perfect. Yellow Dragon Circus in London for one day only? The Tong sent an assassin to England who can shin up a rope, and climb. Where else would he be?”

A sudden cry of indignation rings out as they bring forth a masked man bedecked in some type of armor. He struggles against his captors as the Opera Singer plucks a feather from her head-dress.

“Oh now, look at that,” Sherlock rumbles. She can feel him leaning down slightly so he can keep his voice low and in her ear, and she catches a whiff of his unique scent: formaldehyde from Bart's, no doubt, and a spicy aftershave. “It’s a classic Chinese escapology act,” he says, and his rich voice sends a little shiver down her spine due to its proximity.

“Hmm?” she says distractedly tilting her head so she could hear him better. She watches as the Chinese Opera Singer brandishes the feather and poises it above a silver bowl just behind the crossbow. She drops it, and with a _snap-twang_ a large bamboo arrow zings through the air and embeds itself deep in a flat of boards. The Opera Singer loads another menacing looking arrow as they bring the captive over, and begin chaining him to the makeshift wall.

“The bow’s on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires,” Sherlock explains, and her eyes widen. A cymbal crashes suddenly, and she nearly jumps out of her skin.

Stephen jumps likewise, and they share a grin. He moves in closer to her, and puts his hand on the small of her back as they giggle through their racing hearts. Somewhere in the back of her awareness, she feels Sherlock shift away, leaving a slight chill against her where he once was. She turns her head a little, and sees that he’s still there, his eyes trained fiercely on the act.

She looks back trying to see what he sees; trying to figure out what he was piecing together in that great brain of his.

The drums rise in tempo, and her eyes are drawn to the centre ring once more as the Opera Singer takes out a dagger.

“She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; and gradually the weight lowers into the bowl…” Sherlock whispers, and the Opera Singer sinks the blade into the sandbag Jane didn't notice was hanging over the cross bow until now. The counter-weight begins its descent towards the trigger.

The warrior yells, and begins to thrash against his bonds. Jane holds her breath, and watches as the weight makes it way steadily towards the bowl, a long stream of white sand in its wake. He yells again, and the drum beat quickens, the atmosphere thick and tense. He manages to free an arm, yanking it from the coil of chains, and sets to work on his other one. The weight is half-way there now, and Jane feels Stephen’s arm around her waist clutch a little tighter. The warrior seems to be having trouble with the chains across his chest, and his head snaps up frantically as he pulls on them. Panicked, he lets out a strangled scream, as the weight finally breaches the lip of the bowl…

Just as the arrow flies across the room, the warrior sheds his chains at the last minute and falls forward on his hands. The arrow thunks into the wood, and Jane’s heart can start beating again.

“My god,” she says turning to beam at Stephen. He shakes his head in relief and rubs his hand up and down her back as if trying to warm her while simultaneously drawing her close. She glances behind her to make a comment to Sherlock, but finds that he’s suddenly vanished. She looks around, craning her neck to try and see over the people in the crowd.

_Where did he go?_

* * *

Sherlock slips away when the sand begins to fall. It’s the most appropriate time to beat a tactical retreat, everyone’s focus bound to be on the events at centre ring. What a tawdry performance. Meretricious. If anyone were really looking they would be able to tell that the locks all had a catch. Hardly Houdini. (Idiots. Distracted so easily.)

He sneaks down the side corridor behind the stage managing to peek through the Grand Drape one last time. His eyes linger on Jane for a moment, on that man’s arm around her waist that is most decidedly not his own. (No. Don’t think about that. Irrelevant.) He lets the curtain fall back, and makes his way around the dimly lit backstage area that’s currently being used as a dressing room.

He turns and stops dead when he’s faced with a figure in another warrior’s mask, but upon further inspection he finds that it is only a mannequin. He breathes a sigh of relief, and continues to search. He finds a discarded can of yellow spray paint on the vanity, and slashes a thick line over the mirror. His lips curl into a smirk. Michigan Yellow.

A collective gasp followed by a round of applause from the audience lets him know that the escapology act has finished, and he speeds up his search. He opens the drawers on the small vanity, and pauses on the third one down when a stack of photos catches his eye. He snatches them and begins to shuffle through.

They were candid snapshots of him and Jane taken that day in China Town. Most of the time his back was to the camera or in profile, but it was him nonetheless — holding up a paper sign by the produce vendor while Jane fixes the fold of his collar; through the window sitting at the small restaurant as Jane raises her fork, her other hand cupped under to catch if anything fell; one of him taking a sip of her drink (this one gives him pause for a moment); their backs as they were walking down the street away from Soo Lin’s flat, his hand hovering over the small of her back as she looked at him from the side.

Then the photos begin to change, shot after shot consisting mostly of Jane as she traversed the dingy car-park leaning in close to inspect some graffiti. One of her coming across the wall with the yellow paint, and one outside of Baker Street of her in his arms being lifted out of the taxi, his face partially obscured by shadow as he looked down at her in the pale street light.

A noise from the corridor alerts him, and he hastily shoves the photos back in the drawer and ducks behind a clothes rack. He holds his breath as the Opera Singer comes in and yanks off her head dress, tossing it on the vanity’s surface. She pulls out something from the sleeve of her robe, and Sherlock tries to move the clothes a little so he can see. The metal hangers make a light scratching noise, and he freezes when the woman stiffens. She slowly looks around, and he tries to make himself even smaller in order to hide. She trains her gaze on his position, angling her body so Sherlock is just able to see that she’s holding a digital camera in her left hand. He wills her with every fiber of his being that she turns away, hoping that if such a thing as telepathy exists, it manifests in this instant

After another nerve wracking moment that seems to stretch on to eternity, she finally faces away, and Sherlock lets out a long slow breath as she sets the camera down and leaves.

He pounces on it immediately, and flicks through the menu interface to current images. What he finds makes his blood turn to ice. All of them, at least three dozen, are of Jane. And they were all from _today._ Of Jane catching the Tube, Jane walking to the surgery, Jane grabbing a bite at a coffee shop. Jane, Jane, Jane…all of them.

He nearly drops the camera when he comes across the last one.

It was a shot of Jane standing in the lobby just outside the auditorium looking right into the camera.

“Stupid,” he hisses, and sets the camera down. He should never have brought her here. The Black Lotus had taken some interest in her, that was clear, but what? It obviously was a malignant one, and his brain desperately tries to find the connection. His only hope was in pin pointing who the elusive General Shan was if he was going to figure out what linked all of the facts together.

He was so caught up in his swirling thoughts that he didn’t realise he wasn’t alone until it was too late. A large hand clamps down on his shoulder, and he is all but flung across the room and into the clothes rack.

(Oh just _brilliant_.)

He gets up and brushes some dirt off his coat before lunging at his attacker.

* * *

The acrobat twirls around and around in the air, twin silk cloths trailing from his arms as he sweeps around in a truly enthralling sight.

Or what Jane assumed was enthralling going by the collective _‘ohs’_ and _‘ahs’_ around her. She was much too busy trying to find her madman of a flatmate. Something catches her eye near the stage, and she trains her gaze on it. Just when she thinks it’s nothing – _there_ – the Grand Drape billows out in the middle.

She stares at it a moment more before an all too familiar shape comes crashing through the curtain, off the stage, landing smack on his back with a groan.

“Sherlock?” she shouts, and tries to manoeuvre her way through the crowd that has suddenly begun to break apart from their neat little circle.

A feral yell erupts from on stage as the warrior from the escapology act jumps down and tackles Sherlock back to the ground as he attempted to get to his feet. The audience, finally realising that this wasn’t part of the show, begins to panic, impeding her way.

“Sherlock!” she says again just as he’s pinned, and being slammed into the ground by the warrior. She jumps on his back in attempt to wrestle him away from Sherlock, but the warrior shakes her off and back-hands her across the face, making her stumble as stars burst behind her eyes.

“Jane!” Stephen shouts, and he goes for the warrior managing to drag him to his feet, only to be kicked soundly in the ribs thereafter sending him sprawling. The warrior leaps back on Sherlock, shoving him up against the edge of the stage wrapping his meaty fingers around his throat.

Jane looks around in a panic and spots the discarded arrow from the crossbow, and yanks it out of the wood. She runs over, and with all of her might, slams the bamboo pole over the warriors head. He releases Sherlock who slumps to the floor, and turns on her with a violent swing. She’s smaller than him, though, and quicker so she’s able to strike him across the middle causing him to double over. Then with one final blow to the head strong enough to make the bamboo splinter apart, he crumples to the floor.

“HAH!” Sherlock yells triumphantly, and pounces on the man’s shoe. He rips it off and reveals the black ink of a lotus tattoo imprinted clearly on the heel. Jane throws the remains of the broken arrow down on the floor.

“Jane, are you all right?” Stephen says coming up to her holding his side.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right,” she says, watching as Sherlock jumps to his feet and engages in a heated conversation with Dimmok through his phone.

“You’re bleeding,” he says gently taking her hand. She looks down and is surprised to see that he’s right. She must have lanced her palm open with the arrow’s sharp point when she broke it over the masked man’s head.

“It’s fine. Are you okay?” she asks.

“No I’m all right,” Stephen says, his brow furrowing as he takes off his yellow scarf and winds it around her hand.

“Thank you,” Jane says holding it in place. “I’m sorry if it gets ruined. Although my landlady might be able to get out the blood stains. I'm starting to wonder if she's a wizard, actually,” she jokes weakly.

“Keep it,” Stephen says with a rueful smile. Jane goes to say something else when Sherlock’s irate voice snaps at Dimmock down the phone.

“Look I saw the mark! That tattoo we saw on the other two bodies; the mark of the Tong…These circus performers — no I know that. No _listen._ These performers are gang members sent to get it back and — what? Well we don’t know _what_ it is yet…Oh don’t be dense, Inspector just give the order for a raid, your overtime be damned!” he yells, and mashes his thumb into the end call button.

“Dimmock’s coming here?” Jane asks looking around the deserted theatre. “They’ll be half way to China by now.”

“No they won’t leave. Not until they get back what they came here for,” Sherlock says striding over to them. “We need to find their hide-out. It’s the only way.” He pulls out the photo of the graffiti. “It has to be here somewhere in the message. I just need to crack it.”

“What about Soo Lin? What’s her condition?” Jane says.

“I’ve been updated. She’s stable, but still in a coma. We can’t wait for her to wake up, there isn’t time.”

“So these numbers…” Stephens says pointing to the photo in Sherlock’s hands. “They’re a cipher?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says not looking up.

“And each pair of numbers is a word?”

“Ye — hang on, how do you know that?” he asks, his head snapping up.

“Well the first two sets have been translated already, look…”

Sherlock brings the photo up to his face practically inches from his nose. “Look, Jane! Soo Lin started to decipher it for us already, we didn’t see!” He holds out the paper, and she takes it. Sure enough, in faint blue ink are the words ‘Nine’ and ‘Mill’.

“Nine mill? Is that supposed to mean _nine million?”_ Jane says, incredulous.

“Nine million quid. For what?” Sherlock murmurs. He snatches the photo out of Jane’s hands, and marches off in the direction of the exit.

“Hang on where are you going?” Jane says catching up to him and grabbing him by the elbow.

“I have to go back to the Museum. The restoration room. Stupid! We must have been staring right at it!”

“What?”

“The _book_ , Jane. The key to cracking the cipher. While we were running about through the gallery, she must have been translating the code. The book must be sitting right on her desk! Go back to Baker Street, I will meet you there,” he says attempting to break away again.

“Wait…” she says, and he faces her impatiently. His gaze softens however when his eyes linger on a spot on her face.

“He hit you,” Sherlock says, and for the first time Jane is aware of the throbbing in her cheek. He raises his hand as if to touch her, but thinks better of it last moment and lets his hand fall back to his side.

“It’s nothing,” she says brushing it off. “Just do me a favour. Don’t…get killed, all right?” She can’t help but steal her own glance at another ring of bruising around his neck just beginning to darken, matching the faded bluish band his own scarf left behind. He nods, pressing his lips together.

“Baker Street,” he repeats firmly glancing at Stephen from over her shoulder, and she nods back. “Don’t talk to anybody, and go directly there, both of you, understand?”

She frowns, puzzled, but doesn’t ask questions. “Yes I understand.”

“Good,” he says, and with that turns on his heel leaving her to watch his retreating figure.

_Please, God. Don’t let him get killed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to go back and edit this chapter. It was a little rough so hopefully it reads a lot smoother now. Cheers.


	13. Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jane confront General Shan and the Black Lotus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This chapter. Holy moly. I hope you guys like it; tis a doozy. By the way I appreciate all of the comments, and I can't believe I am almost done with this installment. Like always, your encouragement pushes me ever on-wards! I do have a little concern, though. I am afraid I have zero ideas of what to rename TGG for this little series. So if any of you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them. Seriously. I'm rather bad with titles sometimes, and especially bad with summaries. Any way. I hope this is as thrilling as you guys have hoped for!
> 
> xxHoney.

* * *

Jane’s mind was racing when they finally made it back to the silent flat. A hollow pit of anxiety settled low in her stomach ever since leaving the theatre, and she couldn’t help but check her phone one last time before hanging her jacket by the door. No new messages, of course.

She breathes out heavily through her mouth, and rubs her thumb across her brow. The tension rippling through her frame made her shoulder ache, and her head throb.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” Stephen asks shattering the silence. For a moment she almost forgot he was still with her, and she stares at him blankly. He comes over and unwinds his scarf from her hand. “We should get this seen to.”

“Right. Yes. We should,” Jane says jarring herself out of her reverie. She makes her way to the cupboard in the hall and retrieves her small home-kit from the top shelf. Stephen takes it from her, and she follows him into the kitchen. She groans at the lack of surface space, and unceremoniously shoves aside glass beakers and a rack of test tubes. She pulls up a second chair and sits dutifully at the table while Stephen grabs a bowl from the cupboard and fills it with warm water. He rolls up his shirt sleeves and sits down.

“Sorry if this stings,” he says with an apologetic smile, and dabs the damp flannel across the cut. She grimaces, but once the blood’s mostly cleared she can see that it’s not as deep as it first appeared. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” he says and begins to unwrap a length of gauze. She nods, a little dazed, and pulls out her phone again. Still no new messages.

“Sorry what?” Jane says when she realises Stephen was still trying to talk to her.

He looks up from tying the bandage with another one of his rueful smiles. He leans back and unrolls his sleeves. “I feel like you’re on two different dates,” he says, the subtle cheek to his words taking the bluntness out of it.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. What a rubbish date I turned out to be,” she says, her face flushing.

“No really it’s my fault. You did warn me after all when we first met. ‘Solving crimes, insane flatmate’ that sort of thing. I’m just sorry I didn’t take you seriously,” he jokes lightly. “It’s honestly a turn on,” he says and picks up her bandaged hand and kisses the top.

Jane blushes furiously. “God how did I end up with you? You should be out having a nice dinner and a movie, and possibly some nice wine and conversation to cap off the night. Instead we get dragged to the circus from hell.”

“Hey. I wasn’t bored. No I mean, generally, I love to go out and wrestle a few Chinese gangsters. Just what the doctor ordered to get the blood flowing,” he says, and she laughs. “Although I could still do with dinner. I’m a bit peckish.”

“Well the least I can do is offer you a bite. Shall we, er, get a takeaway?”

“Yes that sounds lovely. And there’s still time for some wine and fine conversation.”

“We are lacking in the wine department, I’m afraid, but I can offer you some Pilsner and crap telly,” she says biting her lower lip.

“Even better,” he grins.

* * *

The taxi couldn’t possibly drive any slower, and by the time it pulls up to the Museum Sherlock is nearly vibrating out of his skin with anxiety and adrenaline. He bolts from the cab like a shot the moment it stops, and is so consumed with his quest that he runs smack into a German couple.

"Hey, du! Siehst du nicht wo du hingehst?" he yells dropping a book right at Sherlock’s feet.

Sherlock snatches it up and tries his hardest to seem amicable. The last thing he needed was any attention called to him when he was about to break into the Museum. (For the second time in a matter of hours.) He smoothes the pages of the book, a tour guide he notices, and murmurs his banal apologies trying to remain as faceless as possible. The man yanks it back in agitation going off about the rudeness of Londoners, Sherlock already tuning him out in the process of making his way towards the dark building.

He vaguely hears the German man shout for a taxi, and for the life of him, Sherlock can’t explain what instinct makes him turn around, but when he does something catches his eye. He watches as the man raises his arm, the tour guide in his hand. He narrows his eyes, and sees the familiar red and blue letters of the London A to Z. 

He can almost hear the defining _whir-click_ as the missing piece falls into place among the trappings of his mind.

_‘A book that everyone would own.’_

The salience is like lightening, freezing him in place while simultaneously spurring him into action.

“Bitte! Bitte! Sei warten!" Sherlock yells, and sprints back up to the German man and his startled date. He snatches the book out of his hands, ignoring his protests, and slides into the waiting cab, all cordiality aside.

“Komm schon, mann! Ja fick dich auch! Wichser.”

Sherlock doesn’t pay him any mind as he slams the door. 

“Baker Street, 221,” he snaps at the cabbie. “And do you by chance have a pen?”

* * *

“So you mentioned you were in the Army?” Stephen asks, and shifts on the sofa to face her. She shifts likewise, getting comfortable and tucking one leg under her.

“Yes. Doctor until I was invalided,” she says.

“You were invalided?” Stephen says, his eyebrows lifting. “What happened?”

“Shot in the shoulder,” Jane says trying to keep it direct. She hoped he wouldn’t want any more details than that. Nothing kills the mood faster than reliving the time she was held hostage in an enemy camp for over three months. She clears her throat and smiles, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

“That’s unusual,” Stephen says with a frown. “You’d think that sort of thing would cause a maelstrom with the press.”

“In usual circumstances, yes. But I wasn’t working under the Red Cross at the time. I switched to Infantry,” she hedged.

Stephen regards her for a long moment, head tilted to the side. Instead of more uncomfortable questions, he leans forward and sets his half-empty beer on the coffee table next to his discarded glasses. He tenderly takes her good hand and brushes his thumb over the ridge of her knuckles.

“You are uncommonly brave, Jane Watson,” he says, bemused, his voice low and full of awe. “How is it that I’ve been allowed to cross paths with someone so extraordinary?”

Jane blinks taken aback. Her face heats, and her fingers tingle where they intertwine with his. She utterly speechless and beyond humbled, and when his other hand cups the side of her neck she automatically leans forward reveling in that low burn of anticipation. Their lips are almost touching, both of them on the threshold, and Jane drags her gaze up from his supple mouth and looks into his eyes. Eyes that are a far cry from that familiar swirl of gold and blue…

She doesn’t have time before he bridges the gap, leaning in the rest of the way to capture the kiss, when Jane realises how…off it all is. Something flutters uncomfortably in her gut, and she gasps and wrenches herself away slamming her eyes shut against a tidal wave of embarrassment that takes place immediately after the awkward clash of chins and teeth.

“I’m sorry did I —?” he starts, and it’s even worse that he’s apologising now so she shakes her head still not able to meet his eyes.

“Not your fault. It’s me, I’m just — just tired and overwhelmed with tonight and —” She releases his hand in favour of pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Hey, hey,” Stephen soothes, ducking his head so he meets her eyes. She bites her lip. “It’s all right I understand. It’s a lot to contend with just now.”

She smiles meekly, but still feels the need to say something – anything – to fortify their connection, what ever that may be.

Fortunately, before she can make an even bigger arse of herself, the buzzer goes off.

They both sit there stunned for a moment before Jane blinks. “That must be the food,” she sighs and gets up and crosses to the door to where her wallet still resides in her jacket. She pulls it out and stands in the hall wavering between the stairs and their abomination of a kitchen for a moment.

“Do you need anything?” Stephen asks.

“Actually, can you grab the food while I make the kitchen a bit more habitable?” she says.

“Can do,” he says quirking the corner of his mouth into a smile. 

She hands him her wallet and sets about gathering the least biohazardous looking flatware for their use. She figures the plates she left out on the draining board are probably the safest, and snatches them. The table, however, is another matter entirely, and at eleven o’clock at night she really can’t be arsed to clean it properly. Besides, between the first aid stuff and Sherlock’s experiment with fermented yeast, she would probably need a hazmat suit.

“Trays it is then,” she grumbles to herself, and makes her way back to the cupboard in the hall.

She barely has her hand over the knob when she is suddenly grabbed from behind and slammed up against the wall. She lets out a strangled shout of surprise, and tries to lever herself away from her aggressor, but she’s at a height disadvantage and is pinned even harder.

“Who are you? Get the fuck off of me!” she snarls, fury dousing her blood and making her thrash out. She feels a gloved hand snatch at her hair, yanking and twisting until the elastic band snaps. It brings tears to her eyes as some of her hair gets pulled out with the beaded comb.

“Where is it?” a rough voice says in her ear, all hot breath and unfamiliar accent.

“What? Where’s what?” she manages to say even through she is being crushed painfully into the paneling that lines the hall.

“THE TREASURE!” he barks from behind her.

“Treasure? What bloody treasure?” she shouts back. Although before her question can be answered, her aggressor yanks her back by the hair again, and Jane feels the pinch of a needle being jabbed into her neck. A pit of fear makes her turn cold, and with one last surge of adrenaline fueled fury, she manages to throw them both to the ground.

She scrambles to her knees, and over her masked assailant but before she can get to her feet, he clamps a hand around her ankle and drags her back.

“Get _OFF!”_ she yells and kicks out wildly until her other foot connects with flesh. Abruptly she is released, and before she knows it she's clattering down the stairs on watery legs.

The world tilts alarmingly sideways for a moment, causing her to crash into the wall and slide down to the landing on her knees. She tries desperately to get up, but the sudden pounding in her head causes the bile to rise to the back of her throat and she doubles over even more losing her balance. 

She feels the cold floor rush up to meet her as the drug in her veins does its job, and through the eclipsing darkness one last spark of panic ignites.

_Sherlock._

And then she is falling.

* * *

Sherlock looks down at the creased photo on his lap and caps the marker.

“Nine mill for jade pin Dragon Den black tramway…” Sherlock murmurs to himself. (Jade pin? What the devil was that?) He desperately needed to get his hands on a map, and he urges the cabbie to go faster.

Finally, _finally,_ after a lifetime of traffic lights and one infuriating wrong turn later, he makes it to Baker Street. Jumping out, he unceremoniously throws a handful of notes at the driver barely having enough presence of mind to shut the door before sprinting up to the flat.

“JANE!” he bellows, rounding the landing. “JANE! I’ve found it! The Black Lotus, they’re —” He stops short in the hall just outside the sitting room when something crunches under his shoe. He lifts his foot and reveals the crushed remains of a beaded comb. 

Not just any comb, Jane’s, he realises. He picks it up and notices a few gold strands of hair wrapped around the tines. Not just a few…more than a half dozen, and torn from the root, it looked like. Almost as if —

“Jane?” he yells again feeling his heart drop to his knees, the end of her name raising in pitch. The tableau before him was stark and unmistakable, (the comb, the hair, the throw rug bunched against the wall, the scuff marks on the bualstrade) the order of events laid out like ink on a page blaring the words ALTERCATION, STRUGGLE, CAPTURE like a glowing neon sign. But he hoped, oh he hoped, he was wrong for once.

He bursts into the sitting room, and an iron band wraps itself around his chest leaving the flat devoid of air as he looks upon scene in front of him with abject horror.

The Hangzhou number for fifteen still wet, dripping down the glass.

The Hangzhou number for one, a matching epitaph weeping towards the pane.

Michigan Yellow coating first one window, then the other. Unmistakable.

The London A to Z. He remembers the cipher, and the word hits him like a hammer to an anvil.

_DEAD MAN_

For a horrible, paralysing moment, Sherlock can’t think; the only thing clanging around in his skull the thundering of his own heart turning him to stone where he stands.

His mind seems to be frozen in a hateful loop (circus, photos, Jane, taken, taken, _taken_ ) and he clenches his fist around the comb in his hand until it hurts. The physical pain of the metal rose as it cuts into his palm is just the right thing to shake him out of his stupor, and in a frenzy he launches himself across the room and nearly rips the drawer of his desk clean out.

His shaking hands scrabble for the map of London. He unfurls it, and lays it out atop one of the crates that are still precariously stacked around the living room.

“Oh, Christ,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could physically pinch off the panic. He wills away the iron spike of fear rammed down his spine, and forces the clarity he knows he capable of to the forefront of his mind. (He would find her. But what if — no not an option. He _would_ get her back.) 

He opens his eyes, and the salience is startling. He is instantly able to pick out the location amidst the snarl of roads and coloured lines of the Underground, and stabs his finger into the point on the map.

He runs down the stairs and back out onto the street, one arm in the air for a cab and the other with his phone clamped to his ear.

“Dimmock…” he starts, and clambers into the taxi.

* * *

Jane awakes to a dull roaring in her ears, and a sharp pounding in her head. Her mouth tastes foul and cottony, like acrid pennies and stomach acid. Her mind is in a jumble, and she pushes past the haze in attempt to discern where she is. The last thing she remembered was being attacked, and then…nothing.

A sharp note of panic pings in her chest when it finally registers that she’s blindfolded and tied to a chair, but she tamps it down recalling her survival training like she was taught. After a cursory mental assessment she checks her body for signs of injury, and apart from a few bumps and bruises and the gnawing pain in her shoulder from her arms being wrenched behind her, finds herself to be no worse for the wear. She tilts her head trying to listen, and a familiar voice sounds to her right.

“Jane? Are you all right?” Stephen whispers.

“I’m okay. You?”

“I’m all right.”

“Where are we? Can you see?” she asks.

“Some sort of tunnel. I just woke up not too long before you. It’s pretty dark. What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she says pulling on her restraints to test their veracity. Rough twine bites into her wrists and ankles, and her shoulder gives another twinge of protest.

“Getting the food…” he trails off and then groans.

“What? What’s happening?”

“You remember the circus? Well that bloody crossbow device is here,” Stephen says, and Jane breathes a slow breath out of her nose. Oh this was very extremely not good. She pulls at the ropes again.

Just then a woman’s voice pierces the darkness, her Chinese accent sharp and mocking.

“‘A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket.’” Jane hears the clip of heels on the hard ground as they ricochet around the tunnel. “A Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes.”

Jane’s heart lurches in her throat. Sherlock was here? Why hadn’t Stephen said anything?

“I’m — I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” Stephen says, voice shaking.

“Forgive me if I do not believe you,” the woman says, and Jane can hear a rustling noise. “Debit card name of S. Holmes…” Suddenly, Jane understands. It’s quite hilarious actually, and if the situation was different she might have laughed.

“No, he – he’s not Sherlock…that’s my wallet. He leant me his card; we flatshare together,” she says, but is promptly ignored. For the first time since she’d been back from tour she regretted keeping her passport as her only form of identification.

“A cheque made out to a ‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’” the woman continues, and Jane groans inwardly.

“No, see — he gave me that to look after. That’s _my_ wallet!” she says. The rapid approach of feet is her only warning before she’s backhanded hard with a small pistol it feels like. The bruise already on her face from earlier screams in protest and she sees bursts of light behind the hateful blindfold. She tastes blood, and she turns her head to spit on the ground.

“Jane!” Stephen shouts.

“Tickets, Mr. Holmes!” the woman shrieks. “Collected by you at the theatre. How do you explain that?”

“He gave them to me,” Stephen says defeated. “I realise what this looks like, but I’m not him!”

“Nice try,” the woman says, and Jane can hear the distinct click of a safety being turned off. “I am Shan, and it will take more than that to fool me.”

“Shan?” Jane says, incredulous. “ _You’re_ General Shan?”

“Three times we tried to kill you and your companion, Mr. Holmes. What does that tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?” Shan says.

“Please, no. I’m not him! You have to believe me!” Stephen says, his voice taut with distress.

“Listen to him!” Jane cries.

“It means they aren’t really trying,” Shan’s cold voice says, and there is a tense stretch of silence followed by a deafening _click_ as the trigger is pulled. Pulled but not fired. Jane feels as if she's going to be sick.

“Christ!” Stephen says breathing out rapidly through his nose. The relief is short lived however, when the sound of a clip slides home with a snap.

“Not empty now, Mr. Holmes,” Shan says with a humourless laugh, and Stephen sucks in a sharp breath. “If we wanted to kill you we would have done so by now. We just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.” She cocks the pistol again, and Stephen lets out a hysterical half laugh, half sob. “Where is it?”

“Where’s _what?”_ Stephen bites out.

“The treasure.”

“What treasure?” Jane says, bewildered. She starts to shiver as a cold gust of wind whips around her.

“The Jade hairpin. Do you have it?”

“Hairpin? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stephen says.

“You’ll forgive me for wanting to make certain.”

“No stop, what are you doing? Leave her alone!” Stephen shouts.

“I need a volunteer from the audience!” Shan says cheerily. Jane feels two men on either side of her, and suddenly her entire chair is lifted into the air. “Thank you, lady. You will do nicely."

“Stephen?” she says as she is set back down on the ground.

“I’m sorry, Jane. I’m so sorry!” Stephen says.

“What’s happening? Tell me?” she asks trying to keep her voice steady.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Shan says continuing with the charade. “From the moonlit shores of the NW1, we present for your pleasure, Sherlock Holmes’s pretty companion in a death-defying act!” Jane goes cold with fear when she realises what’s going on. Stephen mentioned a crossbow, and she would bet money on the fact that she was probably sitting right in front of it.

“Stop! Let her go!”

“The hairpin, Mr. Holmes!” Shan yells cruelly, all form of pretence forgotten.

“ _What hairpin?_ I don’t know what it is you want!”

“The Empress pin valued at over nine million sterling! We finally found a buyer in the West, but one of our people got greedy. And you, Mr. Holmes, have been trying to find it. Now. If you value her life,” Shan says, and Jane hears the puncture of cloth and the tell-tale hiss of falling sand. “you will tell us where it is!”

 _“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!”_ Stephen yells, his voice ringing with terror.

“I don’t believe you!” Shan snarls, and Jane hears the sound of a metal hand gun hitting flesh followed by a grunt.

“You should, you know,” a familiar baritone voice suddenly cascades from behind her, and Jane nearly sobs in relief. “Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him. How would you describe me, Jane? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

“Bloody _late!”_ Jane shouts. She can’t keep the manic grin that suddenly blooms across her face at bay. “You crazy sod.”

“After him!” Shan shouts, incensed, and the sound of pounding footsteps can be heard retreating in the distance. A moment later a scuffle takes place, followed by a loud groan and a heavy thud. The crash of hollow metal thunders close from behind, and Shan gasps.

“I will shoot!”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. That’s a semi-automatic. If you fire it the bullet will travel at over a thousand miles per second, and the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Could even hit you. Are you willing to take that chance?”

Before General Shan has a chance to respond, another booming crash bounces around the walls of the tunnel, disorientating her. It sounds like he’s close, but Jane can’t be sure. She tries to listen to the falling sand to see if she can judge how much time she has left. A sick feeling in her stomach tells her it's probably not much at all.

She jumps when she feels cold fingers clawing at the ropes on her wrists.

“Quiet,” Sherlock whispers, tugging on the knots.

“How – how far is the sand bag?” she breathes, licking her lips. He doesn’t answer. “Sherlock?’

“About half way. Hold still,” Sherlock says.

Suddenly Sherlock is torn away from her with a startled yell. “Sherlock? Sherlock?!”

“Kill him!” Shan screeches, her voice sounding far away. 

Jane ducks her head, desperately trying to remove the blindfold with her shoulder, but it’s no use. She listens intently, and her blood freezes over when she hears a familiar choking, gasping noise.

“Sherlock, you can’t let him get behind you,” she instructs rapidly. “Don’t give him the leverage!”

She hears the sickening crush of skin connecting with skin, and someone groans. She pulls frantically on her bonds to no avail, and she tries breaking the chair apart, but can’t get the right angle. She feels a foot kick out against her elbow, and it gives her a point of reference as to where the fight is taking place. She gauges it's roughly six o’clock from her position, and suddenly a thought occurs to her.

“Sherlock! Listen to me!” she barks. “Get behind me and bloody well stay there!” she orders in her best Captain-voice.

She squeezes her eyes shut inside the blindfold and concentrates on the steady stream of sand off to her left. Sherlock said it was half way down roughly a minute ago, and she moves her foot as much as she can sweeping away the grains of sand as she finds the traction she needs under the sole of her shoe. The struggle continues on behind her, and she tries to block it out, tries not to think about how this night could end up with one of them in a body bag. She swallows at the image, and pushes everything but the hush of the falling sand to the back of her awareness. Like a knife, she hones the last tool she has left at her disposal: her gut instinct.

_Not yet…wait. Wait for it, Jane…almost…now!_

“VATICAN CAMEOS!” she yells and with all of her might, pushes off with her foot while throwing her body hard to the side. The chair tips over just as the device clicks and snaps, and she feels the arrow whoosh past her head barely missing her as she falls to the ground.

The arrow finds its home with a wet thunk and Sherlock lets out a strangled cry. Jane’s heart stops beating, and she can literally feel the blood draining from her face. _No. Oh god, no._

“Sherlock?!” she says, pulling frantically on her wrists ignoring the sting. “Oh, god, please!”

Please don’t be dead. Please, god.

There’s a loud groan from behind her, and Jane holds her breath. She feels herself being righted in her chair and she tries to lash out, convinced it’s her attacker come to finish her now that he was done with Sherlock.

“Jane! Jane, stop! It’s me, you’re safe!” Sherlock’s voice says, hoarse and wrecked, and he clasps her face between his palms. "The arrow hit him. Zhi Zhu is dead."

Relief slams into her and she’s powerless as a sob escapes and punches its way out of her lungs.

“Christ, Sherlock. I thought it hit you,” she says as he pulls the blindfold off of her face. She squints against the light flickering off the tunnel walls. Sherlock searches her face for a moment. He raises his hand and brushes his thumb against her cheek.

“Please...don’t cry,” he says, his brows coming together, his lips parted in a moue of distress. Jane didn’t even realise she _was_ crying, but sure enough she can feel the dampness on her cheeks. She says the only thing she can think of.

“I thought I lost you.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it resonates between them like a bell. His eyes widen slightly before he closes them, and he moves his hand from her face to the nape of her neck as he presses their foreheads together. Jane can feel the slight tremor pass through him, and she realises he feared the same.

For a moment nothing else exists outside of their bubble, and they sit there just breathing each other’s air. The tension melts from Jane’s frame, and she begins to tremble partly from the cold, and partly from something else she can’t possibly define. She pulls back slightly so she can look at him just to see if what she’s feeling is reflected back at her. What she sees, however, takes her breath away.

There’s something there between them she knows, but what she sees in his eyes is so much _more_ and yet so, so _simple_ she can’t believe she didn’t recognise it sooner for what it was. 

It's so blatant, but there it is like night and day: they go together. Irrevocably. Like two parts of a whole. How was it ever any different before now?

Sherlock sucks in a breath, and she knows in that moment that he feels it too. He licks his lips and moves in slightly, irises ablaze like stained glass in the glowing firelight. She holds her breath.

The wail of a siren suddenly cuts through the air, and Sherlock pulls back. She blinks a few times against the loss as her heart cramps painfully in her chest. That's twice now, and the second time is definitely the worst, she thinks, her nerves as raw as her wrists.

“I’ll, um, untie you now,” Sherlock says looking away. She nods, not trusting her own voice to remain steady.

Stephen suddenly groans across from her as Sherlock eases her wrists free from their bonds. She feels ashamed she nearly forgot about him, and cranes her head to assess his injuries. He’s slumped over in his chair unconscious, but from what she can tell he’s all right.

“Is there an ambulance coming?” she asks softly.

“I told them to bring one,” Sherlock says.

“Stephen might have a concussion. I’ll wait with him until they take him to hospital. He should be monitored over night,” she says shaking out her arms and rolling her shoulders. Sherlock nods and crouches down to untie her ankles. He helps her to her feet, and grips her lightly by her upper arms.

“Are you okay?” he intones.

“Yes,” she says, grimacing at the traitorous wobble in the word. She rubs the chafed skin around her left wrist to sooth the burn. “Well, no but I will be. I just want to go home.”

Sherlock presses his lips together into a thin line. He starts as if he wants to say something more, but instead he releases her and takes off his coat. He swings it around her shoulders.

“For shock, or so I’m told,” he says, cutting off her protest. She’s too weary to put forth more than a token argument anyway, so she merely nods while clutching it tighter. It’s heavy, and admittedly very warm.

“Thank you.” 

They both look up at the sound of approaching footsteps as the DI and a fleet of officers sprint up the tunnel.

“Tend to him,” Sherlock says gesturing to Stephen. “I need to talk to Dimmock about Shan.”

“She got away?”

“Mm,” he confirms bitterly, folding his hands into his trouser pockets. He goes to meet Dimmock, but Jane stops him. He turns back to her with a question in his eyes.

“Don’t leave without me, okay?” she says in a small voice, and can’t bring herself to care if she sounds silly.

“I won’t. I’ll wait for you,” he promises. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wut?? More unresolved kissing?? What are you doing to us Honey? Muhahaha still not sorry. But don't lose heart! Check the tags; I've added the First Kiss tag for a reason! Hang in there with me, 'Blindness' isn't over just yet! More to come.


	14. For Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There's only this. Right now. Tonight..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, friends. The last chapter in this installment. You have all been so patient with me, and I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you all so so much for your encouragement and for seeing me through this every step of the way. There will definitely be more on the way. I'm not done with Jane and Sherlock just yet! Oh and it was the weirdest thing, as I was writing the end of this chapter Adele's 'Set Fire to the Rain' came on the radio and I nearly died with how perfect it was. So you should listen to it. I forgot how amazing that song is.
> 
> Anyway. Without further ado...

* * *

The taxi ride was silent all the way back to the flat. Sherlock was a mirror image of Jane, turned likewise to stare out of his window from across the seat, but instead of observing the London cityscape at night, he opted to observe her in the reflection of the glass. 

She holds herself stiffly, her back ramrod straight, and the fingers of her left hand curled into a tight ball in her lap. A perpetual frown darkens her brow, and she stares out her own window without really seeing. He can tell her shoulder is bothering her by the way she subconsciously hitches it higher than the other one, and this alone has Sherlock’s anger spiking again. He pictures her tied to that hateful chair — her arms pulled back at an unnatural angle, wrists rubbed raw — and grits his teeth. He wants to dig his fingers into her shoulder and knead away the ache; he wants to hold her hands and sooth the rope burns with his caress; he wants to get her to say something, anything, to make sure she’s really truly there sitting next to him. But most of all, he wants to pull her close to him and forget what could have happened if he hadn’t reached her in time.

He does none of these things, however.

Instead he presses his fist almost painfully into his thigh and tries not to think about how utterly _compromised_ he is. (Consumed, overwhelmed, devastated by her all-encompassing presence.) 

There are no excuses for what happened tonight. None whatsoever. For the second time in his life he foolishly let someone in, and they had laid to ruin the sharp workings of his mind, the detritus of sentiment left clinging to his once stalwart logic. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t have solved this case sooner, no reason why he let Shan get away. He did this to himself; he let down his walls, and Jane almost paid with her life. It was unacceptable.

But he had been here before already, hadn’t he? He had tried to talk himself into making her leave once before, and it didn’t work. 

Or more accurately, he talked himself into believing that he functioned better with her around in the end. In her absence the Work would suffer, surely, and it was a relief to have something other than cocaine to keep the hateful ennui that stretched out between cases at bay. (Most everyone would agree with him on that front, at least.) Despite what he thought, Jane was now necessary. Full-stop.

So here he was. At a bloody impasse with himself.

(It seemed as if he was well and truly _fucked._ As the saying goes.) 

The cab pulls up to the kerb, and Sherlock pays the driver before following Jane up to the front door. She stands on the top step for a moment looking down at her left hand. She flexes her fingers, willing the tremor to ease, and Sherlock pauses before unlocking the door.

“Jane?” he says, and her head snaps up. Sherlock can see the exhaustion in the corners of her eyes, and the tension in her mouth.

“What?” she asks. She clenches her hand again. Sherlock looks at her, and gently circles her now-bandaged wrist with his fingers.

“It’s over.”

“Yes I —” She closes her eyes and breathes out steadily through her nose. “I know.” 

He lets go and opens the door for her, hanging back as Jane ascends the stairs. He makes sure to lock the door securely behind him before following her up to the flat.

Jane stands in the middle of the sitting room, her arms folded tightly across her chest as if she were warding off a chill. She’s still wearing his coat, and she clutches it to her even more. He follows her gaze, and sees what she is looking at: the windows. A shudder runs through her as she takes in the horrid yellow paint.

“I’ll wash them,” Sherlock says coming to stand next to her. She looks at him with a wry, sceptical expression. 

“You will, will you?”

“Well…Mycroft will get someone. He owes me,” Sherlock says rocking onto the balls of his feet.

Jane huffs out a laugh and wipes a hand over her face. “Lazy prat,” she says affectionately. She looks up at him with a smile like the sun slowly parting the clouds, and the previous darkness gathered in her hazel eyes dissipates little by little. (He feels a warm ball in the centre of his chest at seeing this smile that he files it away for further inspection.)

“I’m going to go take a shower,” Jane finally says and shrugs out of his coat. She hands it to him. “Thank you for saving my life. And well, not dying,” she says ruefully. He simply nods, and watches as she walks down the hall to the bathroom. He looks down at the coat in his hands and frowns at the bit of dried blood on the cuff. Jane’s blood. (Wrong. So wrong.)

He hangs it up by the door.

“Eventful night,” Inspector Lestrade says from the hallway making him jump. He didn’t even hear him come up the stairs. More importantly —

“How the hell did you get in?” Sherlock snaps, instantly on the defensive.

“Oh please. I’ve had a key to this place since you’ve moved in.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says. (Meddling landlady. Good intentions; highly annoying.)

“Mrs. Hudson,” Lestrade confirms walking the rest of the way into the flat. “Dimmock still needs a statement out of you. And Shan is nowhere to be found.”

“If you came here to state the obvious, Inspector you’ll find that you are wasting your time,” Sherlock says. 

“Okay,” Lestrade clips. “You like facts, don’t you? Well here’s one for you. Fact: what happened tonight was a _fucking_ train wreck, Sherlock.”

Sherlock whips away from the Inspector and makes his way across the room, anger roiling under his skin. He kicks over a stack of books that was sitting next to the desk in a poor attempt at letting out his frustration.

“ _Why_ are you here?” he snarls, and presses his palms onto the worktop glaring at the window in front of him.

“Where’s Jane?” Lestrade barks, cutting to the chase. There is a ragged and barely contained anger residing just under the surface of his tone. 

“She’s _fine,”_ Sherlock says.

“According to who?!” Lestrade erupts, incensed. “She bloody well got kidnapped and tied to a chair in a goddam _tunnel!”_

Sherlock hangs his head between his shoulders. “I guess you’ve been keeping tabs on me through Dimmock,” he says spearing the _k_ at the end of the word. “And here I thought you weren’t my keeper?”

“You’re a goddam idiot, did you know that? What were you thinking going in without backup?” Lestrade shouts ignoring this. “I mean, a fucking crossbow, Sherlock? She could have been killed!” Sherlock balls his fists, crushing various papers at his disposal in his hands. “Are you even listening to me? Jane could have _died.”_

“I KNOW!” Sherlock roars spinning around.

Lestrade isn’t fazed, and he stalks up to Sherlock and shoves him in the chest. “I thought we had an agreement, Sherlock! Last time I told you, I bloody well told you what would happen if I thought you were using her as bait —”

 _“Bait?”_ Sherlock says, incredulous. “You think I was using her as _bait?”_

“I wouldn’t put it past you for a _second,”_ he spits.

“Because you would know all about using people to further yourself, wouldn’t you, Lestrade?” Sherlock says narrowing his eyes.

Lestrade clenches his jaw and looks away. “You and me. This. We’re done,” he says through bared teeth.

“So-so what? That’s it? I’m ousted from Scotland Yard?”

“You bet your arse.”

“See how well you do without me, then! If it weren’t for me you would still be behind a desk, or trailing after Gregson as a bloody sergeant!” Sherlock accuses, rage coursing through his veins.

“Come off your high horse. You really think I made Inspector solely by taking advice from a _junkie?”_ Lestrade scoffs looking at him pointedly.

“I’m _clean,”_ he snarls, lips pulling back from his teeth.

“Yeah for now. You don’t necessarily have a good reputation when it comes to _staying_ clean. Your problem is you think you’re above it all, but you’re no better than any ordinary addict,” he says pressing harder. Sherlock tries not to blanch at this. “That’s all it is to you, chasing the next high. You’re a liability, Sherlock, and I can’t just keep waiting around for you to kill yourself. Or someone else.”

“I don’t need to listen to this tripe!” Sherlock says and makes to go around the Inspector. Lestrade clamps his hand around his bicep and yanks him back.

“If I were to search your flat right now would I come up empty handed?”

Sherlock glares at him, but he can’t help it when his gaze flickers over to the violin case on the desk. And damn Lestrade for being a somewhat decent detective for noticing. (He was adept at the most inconvenient times.) Recognition crosses his face, and he looks at the case.

“Uncle Greg?” Jane’s voice suddenly interrupts from the kitchen as she walks cautiously out into the sitting room. She wraps her fluffy bathrobe more securely around her. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock jerks his arm out of Lestrade’s grasp, and straightens his suit jacket. “Yes, Lestrade. Would you care to explain what’s going on?”

The Inspector doesn’t say anything. Instead he steels himself and marches over to the violin case, angrily flipping up the latches. Sherlock looks on, trying to maintain an air of disinterest even as Lestrade’s deft fingers pry open the hidden compartment. He tucks his hands into his trouser pockets casually, even though every fibre of his being is on tenterhooks.

A frown creases Lestrade’s face, and after a moment he comes away with nothing, shaking his head in disbelief. He huffs a bitter laugh, and Sherlock’s mind kicks into overdrive. (He didn’t find it. Yes! Wait. How could he not have? It was just there a few days ago.)

“Greg?” Jane prompts once again. She looks between them warily.

“I — nothing. My mistake,” Lestrade says, closing the case with a snap. He comes over to her and puts his hands on her shoulders, peering into her face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Just tired,” she says her tone even. Sherlock doesn’t miss how carefully she forms the words, however, belying her lingering unease.

“Your fears assuaged, Inspector?” Sherlock sneers. Jane shoots him a look over the other man’s shoulder. Lestrade ignores him, and ducks his head so he could talk softly to Jane. Sherlock turns his back in disgust and leans against the wall to look out the window as best he can due to the paint. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but after a few moments, Jane ushers him out. “Good riddance,” he murmurs under his breath as he watches Lestrade cross the street to his cruiser and drive off.

He doesn’t turn around even when Jane sighs from behind him. He hears her make her way across the sitting room, and watches out of the corner of his eye as she busies her self with something on the mantle. After a moment, she comes up behind him, and he catches the scent of her shampoo: citrus and roses. Sherlock finds that the vitriol in his head and the buzz in his limbs starts to fade despite himself.

“So…a hairpin?” Jane says eventually, penetrating the dense silence. She folds her arms in front of her chest and looks likewise out of the window.

“I should have put it together sooner,” Sherlock says. “It was one of the items up for auction on the website. Obvious. Van Coon’s PA was wearing it right in front of me.” He reaches into his pocket and turns around, finally. He holds out the bent beaded comb. “It was this that reminded me.”

Jane takes it, a haunted ghost of a smile hovering on her lips for a moment before vanishing once more. She runs her thumb along the crushed metal rose before setting it on the desk. She meets his gaze with her own, and silently pulls something out of her own pocket.

Sherlock starts when she places the small packet of powder into his hand. His immediate reaction is anger, but it is quickly cut off by a cold stone of worry settling in his chest. “How did you find this?”

“My sister’s an alcoholic, remember? I know all the tricks,” she says plainly. Already there is an indignant retort, an explanation at the fore front, ready to lash out and defend, but Jane holds up her hand. “I’m not — I’m not going to take it from you.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock bites out. “I’d like to see you try.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Let me rephrase; I don’t _want_ to take it from you,” she says.

“I — what?” Sherlock says reeling back slightly. (Unexpected. Incongruous to all that Jane is. Doctor, healer, soldier, protector.) “Yes you do. Don’t lie.”

“No I don’t,” Jane says simply. “Okay I’ll admit I don’t want you to have it at all, but this, if I take this, it isn’t about the cocaine at all. It’s about control.”

“Control? What do you mean?”

She looks at him, a small frown creasing her brow, and shifts on her feet. “All your life you’ve been at the mercy of other people; choosing what they think is best for you, making decisions on your behalf. You keep this bit of powder around not to use it, no. You keep it to remind yourself that it’s you who is the one choosing not to take it. Not because of Mycroft and his ultimatums, or Lestrade and his threats, but simply because _you_ decide.”

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry and he looks down at the packet in his hand. “How could you possibly know that?”

“I ran away to join the Army, remember? I know what it’s like to constantly be pinned under someone else’s expectations,” she smiles sadly. “and I’ll be damned if I’m just another person in your life that dictates what you should or shouldn’t do. It would kill me if that’s all I was.” She breaks off suddenly self-conscious, and her gaze skitters away.

“Jane…” he says and trails off. What can he say? For once in his life he is speechless; rendered apart and utterly _seen_ by another human being. (He’s tried, oh he’s tried to keep her out, but she single handedly toppled every strong hold he’s built for himself. How does she do that?) _‘If that’s all she was.’_ Preposterous. Can’t she see that she is _so much more_ than that? He reaches out and turns her face towards him.

She is everything in these quiet moments. And it’s so obvious.

He swallows thickly. It’s clear to everyone how much she means to him, even (and especially) his enemies. Tonight was proof of that. He pushes down the cold lump of fear, and allows himself to caress her cheek with his thumb before he makes himself turn away.

“Thank you,” he says to the window. It’s starting to rain, the patter of rain drops a hateful white noise to his ears. He closes his eyes.

“Just…” Jane’s voice hitches, and she breathes deeply to compose herself. He tears his gaze away from the devastated look on her face in the reflection. “I’m here. I want to be. I’ve never wanted to be for someone before, but I do. For you. If – if not indefinitely, then at least for tonight, know that I am.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything as she turns and makes her way up to her bedroom. He crushes the bag of powder hard in his fist and clenches his jaw almost painfully. Every step of hers as they carry her away is like a spike of pain beneath his rib, pounding in time with each footfall.

(He wanted to go to her. _Oh,_ how he wanted. But he _couldn’t._ There was too much risk involved for him. For her.)

With a wordless growl his flings open the window and tears at the plastic bag, releasing the white powder into the howling wind. He feels suddenly sick as the last vestiges of bitter cocaine cling to his fingers.

He shuts the window and presses his forehead to the cold glass.

* * *

Jane tumbles into a restless sleep wrought with exploding mortars, desert sand, and Chinese women with painted faces. Sherlock’s face swims up to the surface just out of reach, eyes magnesium bright, and every time she gets close he vanishes like vapour. Suddenly the dreams change and she running through the streets of London, down alley after dark alley, fruitlessly searching, always searching… 

There is an insistent pounding from somewhere, pulling her from the grasp of unconsciousness, and she startles awake just as her door opens with a bang. She scrambles to an upright position against her headboard clutching the duvet to her chest.

“Sherlock…?” she says taking in the tall figure outlined silver in the street light pouring though her window. He pants slightly, out of breath having just run up the stair.

“You said…you said…” he flounders, shifting on his feet. Jane gets out of bed and stands there with her arms across her chest, worried. Lightening acrs across the sky temporarily illuminating her room, and she is able to see the flash of his eyes boring into her with all the intensity of the storm outside. She shivers, decidedly not from the cold.

“Sherlock?” she says again and takes a few hesitant steps towards him.

“ _At least for tonight,”_ he finally says, barely above a whisper. Jane’s eyesight is finally adjusting to the dimness, and she doesn’t miss how it seems as if Sherlock is holding himself back, his posture taut yet leaning forward just so.

She frowns at first, not sure what he means when her words come back to her.

_‘At least for tonight…know that I am…’_

_“Yes,”_ she breathes, and suddenly they are both breaching the distance between each other in a clash of hands and arms in a clumsy embrace. She feels herself being pulled tightly against him, strong arms wrapping around her waist, and damp breath on her cheek. She can’t help her hands from roving up his chest and up that long column of neck before cradling his face between her palms, thumbs caressing those impossible cheekbones.

Sherlock presses their foreheads together like he did earlier that night in the tunnel. He takes a quaking breath, air stuttering out of his lungs before he speaks. “I don’t do these things, Jane,” he says, voice rumbling like thunder.

“I know. I know,” she whispers.

“There’s too much at stake,” he says.

Jane closes her eyes and swallows around a lump in her throat. “I know,” she says again, her heart sinking when she realises he’s right. Tonight, she put multiple people at risk simply due to her association with him. It was inexcusable, and Jane tries to push away the awful images of Sherlock's broken body and blank eyes that her traitorous imagination kept throwing up. This was a reality that could never happen if it was in her power. Sherlock Holmes was a force of nature, and surely the world would suffer due to his absence. 

“There’s only this. Right now. Tonight,” he says feverishly. His arms tighten around her even more, and the sky lights up again with crackling electricity.

“Tonight,” she confirms, gathering her strength and her courage. It was only one night, but she would take it — anything he had to give. She pulls back a little, and cards her fingers through his hair, a few tears escaping from the corners of her eyes. “Please?”

And then his lips are on hers with bruising force as he all but drinks her in. She kisses back with equal frevour, small sipping kisses at first before tentatively touching her tongue to the seam of his mouth. He moans, and parts his lips, his own tongue sampling hers.

Jane’s blood sizzles through her veins, and Sherlock walks them backwards until her legs hit the mattress. She sits heavily, and scoots back, dragging him on top of her by his rumpled dress shirt so she can continue to explore the silken depths of that mouth — that mouth that’s always so sharp, always so witty, and for once, completely silent yet no less expressive as he sighs and gasps, nipping and lapping at her own. 

He balances on his forearms, pushing his fingers into her hair, and she arches up, suddenly needing him closer. She hooks her leg around the back of his knee, and throws her arms around him, pulling him down even further until they are flush and she can feel his heart hammering wildly against her own.

She buries her face in the crook of his neck, and tries to stop herself from shaking apart. All of the fear and anxiety of the past few hours pours out of her simultaneously in a flood of emotion and it’s suddenly too much. Her tears stream down her face full force, and soak into his collar.

“Jane?” he asks, pulling back. He brushes the hair away from her face, and she slams her eyes shut against the deep ache in her chest.

“So – sorry,” she trembles. “I’m sorry I —”

“Shh, shh,” he soothes and presses a kiss to her brow. “It’s all right, I’ve got you. Shh.” He presses another kiss to the corner of her mouth, and manoeuvres them so they are laying face to face, sweeping the duvet over them in a sort of protective cocoon. He tangles their legs together and draws her closer still, a hand cupping her face, thumb brushing over her lips and cheek. “Sleep, Jane,” he whispers.

“I don’t want to,” she murmurs catching his elegant hand in hers, kissing his palm and the tops of his knuckles. She burrows into his chest breathing him in as she calms down under his anchoring presence. Despite herself, she feels exhaustion prickling at her eyelids. “Will you stay?”

“As long as I can,” he promises. She tightens her hold on his shirt and tilts her head up one last time to brush her lips chastely against his.

She settles into the cove of his body, already drifting to the sound rain and the lull of his steady breathing.

She knows that by morning everything will go back to the way it was, but for now, she can imagine her light and her world are tucked securely in her arms.

For now, it is enough.


End file.
